Iscariot
by Melmoth the Wanderer
Summary: Story of Judas Iscariot as depicted in the film, told from Judas' perspective in first person. Jesus x Judas slash. Please R&R! Chapter 7 finally up!
1. Author's Note & Ch 1 Revised 041907

_This is the first time I've published my fan fiction. I'd appreciate any constructive criticism or grammatical suggestions. Telling me I'm going to Hell isn't very helpful. Not only do I live in the South, I also have plenty of relatives to tell me this already._

_I included some references to Judaism and Jewish practices in this because it's an important but often ignored context. I also "borrowed" some ideas from other stories and movies (for example, Brokeback Mountain, of course :-)). _

_I wrote this under the principle that one does not suddenly decide to commit suicide. Although the act can occur suddenly after a stress-inducing event, the actual decision is often reached long before. I realize there are exceptions to this, but I thought it would be interesting to view Judas as having a history of suicidal ideation and other problems. _

_I dedicate this to the amazing actor Jérôme Pradon and to the other writers of Fan Fiction in general._

**New Notes: **

**I've made a few changes recently, and I'll probably continue to make more as my understanding of the characters deepens and matures (at least in theory :-)). Since I've decided to rate this "M" instead of "T", I'm going to make it worth it. It's not pornographic or anything, though. Sorry to disappoint. :-)**

**I "borrowed" a few ideas and images from the play ****Road Movie**** by Godfrey Hamilton and the book ****Kiss of the Spiderwoman**** by Manuel Puig. They are both painfully beautiful works that I would recommend to anyone. I also got inspiration from ****The Thief's Journal**** by Jean Genet (which I'm still reading). It's a wonderful and interesting piece of literature, but some people would find it a bit…um, "strong," to say the least. I can't say I'd recommend it to anyone I know, but I really like it. **

**Anyway, enjoy. **

* * *

I was staring at him again. He was talking to Peter and John, smiling patiently at their repetitive inquiries. I knew I needed to turn away before someone noticed me, but for some reason, I was compelled to look at him. His eyes twinkled with life, love, and light. I felt better watching him from here in the shadows, where I belonged, where I was comfortable. 

Suddenly he looked at me, his eyes seeming to pierce through the darkness. I turned away, but I knew he'd seen me looking again. I wanted to hide from him, from his knowledge of me, but I couldn't. He concluded his talk with Peter and John and strolled over to me. I watched the setting sun caress his hair.

He hugged me warmly. I was trying to act as if I had been doing nothing unusual. He looked me in the eye and smiled.

"You must be cold. Come with me," he said. I followed him to the fire around which the others gathered.

* * *

My mother died giving birth to me. All she left behind was a vague emptiness instead of a memory. I often wondered about her, if I thought or looked like her. My father never got over her death, but he was a good, pious man. I respected and loved him, though we weren't very close. He spent most of his time on his studies and his work. 

I had a normal childhood. Like all boys, I learned to read and write; I listened to and learned from the stories of the rabbis. I saw my father's eyes fill with joy when I became a bar mitzvah.

However, I always felt slightly different, slightly "off" from the other boys. I tried very hard to fit in, and to all appearances, I was an ordinary, happy child, but I instinctively viewed myself as an outsider. Every similarity I held with my peers was forced, and every difference was natural. I was terrified that I would be "found out." I felt unable to fully interact with my peers; it was as if an invisible partition existed between us. I got used to being lonely, even when surrounded by people.

When I was about thirteen, I became aware of my attraction to men. I had been staring at them for years, but I never in a sexual way until then. Sometimes I would draw their attractive, strong bodies in the sand, only to wipe the images away with my hand in embarrassment.

I soon realized how dangerous my feelings were. One day, two men were found together doing "immoral" acts. Shortly after, I saw them stoned to death by the village for loving each other, their broken, distorted bodies lying naked in the sun, left to be eaten by vultures. I became paranoid that I would give myself away. I quickly became frustrated and enraged that I had to survive by deceit and dishonesty, and I grew more tempestuous and arrogant. I began to think beyond the cultural and religious expectations of my people. I no longer believed in the inerrancy of the elders; in fact, I found they were often wrong, and I let them know it. My behavior made me very unpopular. I was avoided and ridiculed like a leper.

When I was sixteen, my father decided that the two of us should go to Jerusalem for Passover and worship in the Temple. Our journey went to plan until we were about a day's travel away from the city, when we were separated from our group. We were without a guide; we were vulnerable. After a few hours, a cloud of dust rose into view in the east; we thought it was another traveling party, so we flagged them down. It was too late when we realized they were highwaymen.

I was knocked out in the resulting struggle; when I awoke some hours later, I found my father's mangled corpse next to me. It's impossible to describe the feelings of desperation, grief, and fear that ran through me at that instant. I vomited by the roadside, sickened by the smell and sight of the rotting and contorted figure I had loved.

Not wanting to have his body further desecrated by the elements, I quickly dug a grave with my hands and buried him, saying the Kaddish over the mound. Once my work was completed, I became overwhelmed with sorrow. I fell to my knees and wept until sunrise.

When my tears finally ceased, I realized that I was weak from injury, hunger, and thirst. I limped from the gravesite to Jerusalem with only my ragged clothes and my naivety.

* * *

Eight years later, I had changed. Knowing how to farm isn't very helpful in the city. I became a beggar and a pickpocket, living off the pity and carelessness of others. I developed proficiency with a crude knife for self-protection and threats. I lived from day to day, not knowing what I was going to eat for dinner or where I was going to sleep that night. No one cared for me, and I cared for no one. I saw the scum of humanity up close. I heard many a baby's cries suddenly silenced with a hard slap; I heard the groans of the sick laying in their own feces, urine and blood. I saw brothers fight to the death for a morsel of bread and fathers sell their children into slavery to pay their debts. The sounds of rape and murder lulled me to sleep. I became hardened and cold like them, one of the forgotten and deplored, the wretched of society. 

At times, darkness would come over my mind. I would longingly stare into the waters of the river or make nooses out of scraps of rope. Ultimately, I was too afraid; my body clung to life even when my mind was repelled by it.

To deaden the pain of my existence, I drank. Cheap wine freed me from the desperation of my situation and the deterioration of my mind. I could finally give in to the cravings I suppressed when sober. A dark alley next to the Temple was where many others and I found sexual gratification; it was the only place where our anonymity was assured.

Every morning after these encounters, I would feel complete self-disgust at my perverted weakness. I'd try to discipline myself, to punish myself by punching stonewalls until my hands were swollen or by cutting my chest and legs with broken glass. Then I'd pick at the scabs to worsen the scarring. I knew that it was wrong to hurt myself and that it went against God's laws, but I also knew I had to punish myself. Only when the ground became muddy with my blood would I feel my sins were forgiven. I'd swear to myself never to go back to that alley again, but the next night I'd be back, my eyes downcast in shame.

After a few years, I realized I had to go back home. Part of me never wanted to see my village again, never wanted to look back on any part of my life. However, I couldn't stay in Jerusalem anymore. The Romans were cracking down on the homeless population. Everyday, I saw fellow beggars and thieves taken away to be crucified at Golgotha.

It took a while, but I managed to scrounge and steal enough money to make it back home. When I got there, no one recognized me. I had to tell them detailed information about my father and myself to convince them. When they finally accepted my identity, they were happy that I had survived. They celebrated my "resurrection," but I was unable to share their joy. My heart had frozen against kindness. When I refused to worship with them, they became afraid of me. They believed my empty and ruthless gaze, my lack of faith and warmth, my periods of despair, was an indication of demonic possession. I believed them; I felt cursed by God myself. When a strange disease suddenly spread through the village, I was immediately deemed the cause. I left before they could throw me out.

I became a wanderer. To survive, I did the jobs no one wanted to do, like sheparding and cleaning up dog dung. It didn't matter to me; I had no hope or ambition for the future. I merely existed from moment to moment in my misery, using alcohol, as always, to get me through.

After about three years of this way of life, if one could call it that, I was passing through the small village of Nazareth when I noticed a handsome young man working on a table. He wasn't the most beautiful man I'd ever seen, but for some reason he captivated me like no one else had before. He was shirtless. The sunlight kissed his hair and shoulders and sparkled in the sweat dripping down his face and torso. I watched intently as he shaped the wood with calm and steady hands. After a few minutes, he looked up and caught me staring at him. He laid down his chisel and hammer and walked towards me. I was too scared to move. Would he confront me? I automatically gripped my knife in my robes, though I didn't want to hurt him.

"Hello, friend. I noticed you looked rather hungry. Would you like something to eat?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Just passing through," I mumbled gruffly, self-conscious of my wretched appearance.

"Where are you traveling?"

Why was he being so kind? "Nowhere. I go where I can get work."

"Maybe I could help you find a job around here. Why don't you come in and get something to eat and some rest? My family always welcomes travelers." He wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled. "Oh, by the way, I'm Jesus." He held out his hand. I took it as I repressed a shiver.

"I'm Judas."

* * *

Jesus and his family accepted me into their home. They were all very kind to me, more so than my own relatives were. I felt like a charity case, so I helped out as much as I could. Carpentry wasn't a skill in high demand, though Jesus and his brothers were all trained in the craft. They usually worked more menial work, like fixing stone walls and fences or working in the fields. I earned my keep by doing these jobs as well. Money was tight in the household, but they were very good and generous people, giving what little they had to individuals like me. 

Jesus and I became particularly close. Actually, I've always gotten along better with younger men. He was very much sheltered and optimistic, a stark contrast to my worldly distrust. In a way, I was jealous of his blind idealism. I wished I could believe in the good in people like he did.

I attempted to obscure my past from him; I didn't want him to see my pain. Yet despite my resolution, I found myself becoming daily more candid with him. He listened attentively as I recalled the days of Jerusalem and my home village, only interrupting me to ask astute questions or to provide sympathetic comfort.

I learned about him as well. It turned out Jesus' father had died a couple of years ago when their house suddenly collapsed on him and two other family members. Jesus now lived with his mother and unmarried siblings in a smaller home, scraping by on what they could get. Though poor, he never seemed too concerned about money. He believed God would provide. He was especially devout and wise in religion. Although I still refused to worship in the local synagogue, we heatedly discussed the written and oral Torahs, finding in each other a suitable sparing partner in intellect.

Being friends with Jesus began to heal my wounded soul. Being near him enveloped my spirit in remedial warmth. I no longer felt the self-destructive compulsions to drink excessively and cut my flesh. Jesus intoxicated me more than the best wine in the world; his kind words granted me more of a reprieve than the worst self-inflicted wounds.

However, I still lusted for him. During the day, I somehow managed to control my emotions and thoughts for the most part, but at night, my dreams had full reign. I'd wake up in a cold sweat, feeling guilty for thinking of him in such a way. I'd remind myself that he was my friend; nothing more would ever come of it. But every night the dreams would return and fill my mind with caresses and love.

* * *

I had been there two months when a drought hit Nazareth. Food was scarce; competition for work was high. Tension and stress were palpable. Everyone was having a hard time. 

I began to feel my mind slip back into the shadows. I became surly and aloof. I was angry for no reason. Everything everyone did annoyed me. I'd snap back insults at words that were meant to be kind. Before long, I began to have periods of intense terror at night. I had trouble sleeping and eating. Jesus tried to console me, but I pushed him away, pretending he was the cause of my evident irritation. We drifted apart. Little by little, simple things became difficult; even thinking left me exhausted. No one would hire me; I was described as lazy. Everyday I fell farther and farther into the abyss.

As I lay awake on my pallet one night, I realized I had to leave. Jesus' family was still very kind to me, but I could see I was a burden. I was taking up space and food without offering anything in return. I knew the despair would get worse before it got better.

I sat up in bed and listened to the subtle sounds of the nighttime. Everyone was asleep. I didn't want to say good-bye, and I didn't think I was able to. I felt like I was moving as fast as a turtle and as clumsily as an ox, but no one heard me leave the house. The quarter moon barely gave enough light to see, but I knew the terrain well enough to find my way. Eventually I located the small stream on which the village relied, now only a trickle because of the drought. I had planned to follow it to the next village, but when I reached its edge, I collapsed in fatigue. I felt like I'd walked a hundred miles. I couldn't move. I began to weep. I knew I needed to keep moving; at any moment, I could be attacked by wild animals or muggers. However, I forgot how to walk. I knew I'd done it plenty before, but I couldn't make my muscles contract. I cried over my invalidity and my foolishness.

I knew I'd die from exposure if nothing else, but I eventually realized I didn't mind that end. Perhaps nature would finally accomplish what I hadn't been able. This gave me a sense of comfort. For the first time in days, I slept. I thought I would never have to wake up again.

Unfortunately, I did awaken, and I felt worse than ever. Pure terror was my only real sensation. I vaguely realized it was early morning. I clenched my body into a painful fetal position in an involuntary effort to shield myself from the world. I'd run out of tears, but I continued to convulse in painful breaths. "God, please let me die," was all I could think.

Then I heard voices. It sounded like Jesus and his brother James. They were arguing about something—about me?

"He wouldn't leave like that. Something's wrong. I feel it," said Jesus.

"You'd better be right. Last time you 'felt' something we got lost for three days!" James replied.

"That was years ago; get over it already…hey, there he is!"

I sensed them hurrying closer. I wanted to tell them to go away, to let me die, but my tongue was a useless bag of sand in my mouth.

"Judas! What's wrong? What happened to you?" asked Jesus when he'd reached me. When I didn't respond or even look at him, he quickly turned to his brother. "We need to get him back to the house. Help me carry him."

They pretty much dragged me back to town. I lost consciousness a couple of times, probably out of dehydration. They placed me on my pallet and forced me to drink some water. Their mother and sister came in and took over so that they could return to work. The gentle women fed me, but I vomited everything back up. I felt guilty for wasting food and ashamed at my lack of self-control. I cried violently as they cleaned me up.

I was frightened of being alone. I moaned when no one was in sight, so at least one of them stayed with me, holding my hand and attempting to comfort me all day.

That evening after work, Jesus took over. I was feeling slightly better. I could talk, and it seemed ridiculous that I hadn't been able to only a few hours before. He asked me what had happened. I decided to tell him what I really thought.

"I'm possessed by a demon," I revealed, my eyes on the ground, "It usually sleeps without bothering me, but if it wakes up, it takes over. I feel it clawing my brain even now."

"When did it start?"

I sighed wearily. "I think when I was still in Jerusalem. I guess I was around twenty or so. I don't remember too well." I drew my knees to my chest.

"You said it was just resting now?"

"Yes. I don't know when it'll wake up again." I suddenly became overwhelmed with emotion and could no longer speak without crying. Jesus comforted me and put me to bed. He slept on the pallet next to me in case I needed him during the night.

I must have fallen asleep, for I woke up later to the sound of erratic movements beside me. I looked over to see an unconscious Jesus having convulsions. Alarmed, I got up as quickly as I could, which was about as swiftly as a sloth, and I called for his mother. I grabbed him to me in a feeble attempt to keep him from hurting himself. His mother came in and helped me hold him down. After a few horribly long minutes, the seizure slowly stopped. He slept quietly as if nothing had happened.

"What's wrong with him?" I whispered to his mother, visibly shaking from the experience.

"We don't know," she replied sleepily, "He's been having them since he was twelve. We've tried everything, even Roman medicine, but nothing's worked."

I watched him breathe steadily in the pale starlight as she went to calm the others.

The next morning, his mother wanted him to stay home and rest. He spent his time with me, though I was bad company. I was completely trapped in myself. The night before was only a faint memory. It felt like molten lead had been poured into my body. Even my fingers and toes were too heavy to lift. I was tortured by the past, by every lost opportunity, by every happy moment that was no more. I cried until my face was chapped from the tears. All the while, Jesus held my hand and spoke softly about his beliefs, about the beauty he saw in everyday life. He was describing colors to the blind, but his presence and voice comforted me.

The following morning was the worst yet. I was in a delirium from a fever I had acquired from my evening by the stream. I lay helplessly, jerking randomly from mental and physical agony. I screamed my tears out and fought those who tried to care for me, mistaking their kindness for contempt. Strange delusions flew before my face. I saw my father. When I tried to embrace him, he turned into a rotting corpse that clung to my body. I saw the back of my mother, but when she turned around, all I saw was a skull with worms writhing in the black orifices. I was slowly dying from the terror. In my bewildered mind, I heard Jesus talking to his mother.

"I don't really control it, you know. I can only do it if God wants me to and if the person believes. I'm not sure in either case."

"Do you see how much that poor man is suffering?"

"Of course I do. But what if I fail?"

"You have to try. Please, just try."

I heard him enter the room. He knelt beside me and placed his hand on my forehead. His touch was gentle and tentative, but I was as frightened by it as I was of everything else. I didn't know what he was doing, and I tried to twist away, but he kept his hand firm. It sounded like he was praying.

I'm not sure how long he stayed there; time is strange in that state of mind. However, slowly but surely, I felt my thoughts calm. My terror and fever left me. I could still feel the demon, but it was sleeping now. I looked up at Jesus with a healthy mind and body. He smiled down on me.

"How did you do that?" I asked as I lifted myself up, trembling from the sudden return to sanity and reality.

"I didn't. God did."

"You both should have done it sooner," I retorted.

Jesus laughed good-naturedly. "I've only helped physical ailments before; I wasn't sure I could do anything for you. Besides, sometimes I got the feeling that you didn't believe in God anyway. I can only help those who believe."

I had thought that I no longer had faith in God, that I was free of His influence and doctrine. I usually hated being wrong, but in this case, I was thankful.

"I guess I'll let it slide this time." I smirked, unable to feign anger any longer. "Thank you." I hugged him.

In my gratitude, I also kissed him on the cheek. I meant it as a friendly gesture, but the kiss lasted longer than it should have. I pulled back embarrassed. Jesus was blushing a little. There was an uncomfortable silence between us.

"I suppose you're hungry?" he asked at last.

"A little," I admitted.

We went to dinner. When the rest of the family saw me, they embraced and made over me like I was the prodigal son.

* * *

Life returned to a form of normalcy. The drought soon ended, and Jesus didn't have another seizure. At times, the darkness threatened me again, but not like before. Jesus hadn't cured me of it completely, but he had taken away a lot of its power. We became closer friends. You could never see one without seeing the other. He was the optimist; I was the cynic. We balanced each other even as we provoked each other.

* * *

A few months later, the time came to say Kaddish for my father. I tried to keep it a secret, to act as if nothing was special about that day. I snuck out late that night and said the words into the wind. This year was especially difficult; he had been dead for exactly ten years. I thought about how my memories of him were fading, dying a little everyday. I could barely even remember his face now. 

The next day, I could feel the demon stirring, but I suppressed it as much as I could. Before long, all my effort was in vain.

I became obsessed with the thought that everything I knew and loved would become lost to the sands of time. Reality itself was slipping away into oblivion, and I could do nothing about it. And what did it all matter? What was the point? My father had suffered and struggled his entire life just to be murdered in cold blood. My mother had died in agony while trying to give painful existence to me. Why? I wasn't worth it. Life wasn't worth it.

Jesus could see I was having a hard time. He stayed beside me when I started to pull away socially. When alone, I'd sing myself the comforting songs I'd learned years ago as a child, the vibrations of my vocal chords momentarily warming my chilled heart. But I could feel my thoughts becoming darker and darker.

One night, as I tried to sleep, the Idea again entered my mind with a horrid clarity. I couldn't take this life. I knew I'd relapse into madness again and again until my death, suffering all the while in between episodes. Why was I suffering through life only to wait for Death to find me? I was going to find Him first.

I quietly gathered some rope and headed for the forest on the outskirts of town. I didn't want my swinging corpse to be in full view of the village.

I finally found a tree that worked for my purposes. I had seen men hanged. I knew I needed to fall from a high enough position so that the rope would quickly snap my neck instead of slowly suffocating me. I spotted a branch that would do the job. I made the knot I'd made so many times before.

I had just started climbing the tree when a voice rang out, "Stop!"

"Who's there?!" I shouted, my heart pounding in my chest.

A shadow moved as the familiar voice replied, "Jesus."

"Jesus," I repeated to myself with a sigh of annoyance. He must have seen me take the rope. I was angry that he'd followed me. "Go away. This is none of your business."

"Why are you doing this?" he asked as he edged closer to me.

"I…I feel the demon waking again."

"I can help you, remember?"

I smiled bitterly at his self-assurance and shook my head. "No, you can't. It sleeps for a little while, but it always wakes up. Why should I or anyone else have to suffer through it again? It's not worth it. In the end all this pain doesn't even count."

"I think it does."

"I wish I agreed with you." Tears burned in my eyes. "Please, go away. Try to understand: I have to do this before it's too late." I began to climb the tree again, foolishly hoping he'd leave me alone.

He tackled me from behind, and we crashed together to the ground. I was surprised by his strength. I shoved him away and stood up, but he kicked my feet out from under me. I slammed down on my back. He grinned at me. I lost my temper and attacked him. I hated him for trying to stop me, for caring for me. Why didn't he just leave me alone?!

"You're not thinking clearly, Judas!" he exclaimed as we fought.

"What do you know?! You're just as crazy as I am!" I pushed him violently and staggered to my feet again. He promptly followed suit, looking at me as if I'd lost all reason.

"What are you talking about?"

"I know you have seizures!" I spat.

That surprised him. He relaxed his guard and I used the opportunity to give his jaw a strong right hook. He reeled from me, clutching his cheek. I immediately regretted what I'd done.

"Are you okay?" I asked as I tried to see what the damage was.

His response was a punch to my gut that knocked the wind out of me and made me crumple to the earth. As I tried to catch my breath, Jesus forced me onto my stomach, sat on my back, and pinned my arms behind me. Strangely enough, I'd always thought I could take him in a fight. I struggled frantically, but I could not upheave him. Our haggard breathing permeated the quiet of the woods.

"Give up?" he asked like a triumphant child.

"Get off me!" I gasped.

"No, not until you tell me how you know about the fits."

"Fine! I saw you writhing on the floor one night and did the math," I snarled.

He was silent for a moment, as if in thought. I was still desperately resisting his tight hold, but to no avail.

Suddenly, he leaned down next to my ear and whispered, "Calm down, Judas."

Without my consent, my body immediately began to relax, even as my mind still yearned for battle. I realized how tired I was, and I finally let myself go limp with exhaustion.

"Give up?" he repeated.

I rested my cheek in the cool dirt and sighed in defeat. "I gave up a long time ago."

He released his hold on my arms. "Don't say that."

With effort, I managed to sit up, keeping my eyes lowered as I wiped the sweat and soil from my face. At any moment, I expected a torrent of gloating and jokes. What was he waiting for? I gathered what was left of my dignity and looked at him. I was instantly enraptured by his eyes: they were like flames of silver, blazing with compassion and concern. My anger and suicidal intentions were forgotten.

He smiled encouragingly and squeezed my shoulder as a father would. "We can get you through this. Don't lose hope."

He said these usually meaningless words with such certainty and conviction that I actually believed him. Here was a man five years my junior, but he suddenly seemed older than me, wiser than me…

Was he even real? He looked otherworldly in the eerie moonlight. Maybe I was imagining all this, and I was really passed out in the desert dying of thirst and heat exposure. I had to make sure he was genuine. I caressed his face, relieved to feel solid flesh. He smiled at me. He still didn't seem real enough, though. Perhaps I had finally gone utterly insane and he was my first hallucination. I needed to touch him more completely somehow.

Without thinking, I tried to kiss him. He jerked away before our lips connected.

"What are you doing?" he asked, the shock tangible on his face.

I froze as the truth of what I'd attempted dawned on me. "I'm sorry," I replied. It was all I could think of to say.

He sat there silent and unmoving. My heart began to sting with regret. How could I have done something so stupid? He knew how I felt about him now. Our friendship was ruined. I turned my head away and tried to stop my eyes from watering.

I began to get up. I had to get away from him and his rejection, from my humiliation. He put his hand on my arm to stop me.

"No, no, stay," he said kindly as I sat back down, "You've done nothing wrong. You were only expressing your love for me."

He hugged me warmly. I was grateful to still be in his arms, even if just as a friend.

He suddenly squeezed me harder and added, "Promise you'll never leave me?"

"I promise," I said, smiling at his childlike request.

We ended our embrace and looked at each other. Without a moment's hesitation, he suddenly leaned in and kissed me. Impulse quickly took over my initial astonishment; our kiss deepened and intensified.

I never realized how deadened I'd been before that moment. Familiar and alien feelings coursed through me, electrifying and overwhelming my senses. This was more than just lust or simple affection. This was…

He started kissing me on the neck and shoulder. The exhilaration I felt from his touch brought on the reality of the situation. This was… This was insanity, I realized. This would never work out. What was I doing?

I pulled away from his gentle lips and looked away. "We need to go back before the others realize we're gone." Before he could express his obvious confusion, I jumped up and began to walk back to town. I heard him following me.

"Did I miss something?"

I ignored him and avoided his eyes. I knew if I looked at him, I'd have to kiss him again. He ran ahead of me and blocked my path. He tried to take my hand, but I evaded him.

"What happened? What's wrong?" he asked. I could hear the hurt tone in his voice.

My hands were trembling. I hid them in my pockets. "I'm sorry I misled you, but I can't do this."

"Why? Please, just explain why…What are you so afraid of?"

Involuntarily I raised my gaze. Our eyes locked together. I immediately broke out in a cold sweat and began to shiver.

He suddenly placed his hand over my heart. I grabbed his wrist.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I want to know what you're really feeling," he answered.

"Well, stop it," I demanded threateningly, but I didn't pull his hand off or try to back away. We just stared at each other, completely still and silent.

Could he see how much I wanted to touch him, how much I wanted to be touched? Could he see the aching chasm in my heart? Did he know that I had never been with someone I actually cared for? That I had only experienced the kind of intimacy surrounded by shadows and enveloped in the stench of alcohol?

An intense warmth rose up my spine to my skull and spread across my body. My heart pounded harder, my breathing became increasingly shallow. My eyes filled with tears. I let them fall.

He hugged me.

"Come on, let's rest over here for a minute," he said. I nodded in compliance.

We sat down under an olive tree. I placed my head in his lap and let my tears water the earth and dampen his clothing. He petted my hair and whispered sweet words of comfort. For the first time in my life, I felt safe.

Courage slowly seeped back into me. I stroked his inner thigh. My hand began to wander up his leg.

"Are you sure you're okay with this, Judas?" he asked.

I sat up, smiled, and nodded.

My skin tingled as he undressed me.

The world dissolved away into nothingness.

* * *

When I awoke the next morning, he was sleeping peacefully beside me. I got dressed, never letting my gaze leave him. I lay back down next to him, studied his peaceful face, and thought, "How is it possible to love someone so completely? I love every curl on his head, every blemish on his body." 

His eyes opened groggily. We smiled at each other in the warm glow of the dawn.

We were together for two years in Nazareth. Those were the best years of my life. We both still had our own "episodes," but together we got through them. He was my purpose, my inspiration to keep going.

Of course, I was often worried about getting caught. I knew very well that others wouldn't understand our love. But Jesus would dispel my fears with a reassuring look and a lopsided grin. It seemed that nothing bad could happen if we were in each other's arms.

I think we both wished nothing would ever change, but naturally, things did.

His seizures began to increase in number and severity. He became more serious, more reserved. He soon revealed to me that he was being called to preach.

"What, do you have something to preach about?" I laughed.

He was very grave. "I don't know. God will speak through me."

The smile faded away from my face. "You're serious about this, then?"

"Yes."

Silence passed between us. I saw the worry in his eyes; I saw the anxiety he was trying to hide even from himself. He needed my support; I didn't want to share him with the rest of the world. But I knew it was pointless to resist. God would keep torturing Jesus until he did what He asked. I also knew that maybe there was a higher reason, something I couldn't understand. I sighed.

"Consider me your first apostle." I said simply. He smiled grimly, and we embraced in our new fellowship.

* * *

Now, almost three years later as I looked at the followers of Jesus laughing and chatting around the fire, I could hardly believe how much his words had spread. 

Gathering followers was easy. The dregs of society found a home in our little group. I had asked Jesus to be more selective, but he welcomed anyone who needed us. I had to admire his goodwill, if not his common sense.

As time passed and as his popularity increased, Jesus and I drifted apart a little. Oftentimes I didn't see him for days or even weeks. I missed him, but he never seemed to miss me as much. I honestly don't think he had time to miss me. His absence made me realize how attached I had become to him, how dependent I had become on him. Sometimes I hated him for making me so weak.

But at this moment, I felt as I did when we were together in Nazareth. I sat next to him in the warmth and glow of the fire. He made me laugh and softly rubbed my hand with the back of his when the others weren't looking.

Later that night, as we lay together in the soft radiance of the waning moon, I felt like I could finally talk to him about our relationship. I revealed my concerns and angst as nonchalantly as I could. As always, he listened patiently and attentively. When I finished, he playfully nuzzled my neck.

"Judas, I love you more than even you can comprehend. No matter how far apart we may be physically, we'll always be together spiritually, emotionally. Everything will work out for us. You'll see."

I believed him. I wanted to believe him. I let myself be washed over with his certain simplicity and slept peacefully in his arms.

That was the last time I was ever happy.


	2. Chapter 2

"Christ?"

I woke up with a start to find Simon standing over me, his eyes wide with astonishment. I disentangled myself from Jesus and jerked into a sitting position, too stunned to say anything coherent. Jesus awoke, stretched lazily, saw Simon, and calmly sat up.

"What is it, Simon?" he asked, as if nothing was unusual.

"Uh…Well…" Simon replied, glancing at me intermittently, "Peter was looking for you. He's going into Jerusalem for supplies, and he wants to know if you need anything."

"No, I have all I need. Do you need anything?"

It took me a second to figure out that Jesus was addressing me. I shook my head vigorously.

"It looks like we're okay then. Thank you, Simon."

Simon just stood there, open-mouthed.

"Is there something else?" Jesus asked patiently.

"No…not really, I guess. I…I'll see you around, then." Simon walked away, occasionally looking back at us.

The shock wore off and I was immediately filled with fear. I looked over at Jesus to see him smiling at me.

"How did you sleep?" he asked with a groggy smile.

Had he lost his mind?

"What? Don't you realize what just happened? We've been discovered. Simon's gone to tell the others; they're going to kill us!"

My heart racing, I got up and began to collect the blankets. "We've got to leave…we've got to get as far away as…"

Jesus just sat there, his eyes sparkling with repressed mirth.

"What's so funny?!" I spat.

"I've never seen you so agitated before. You've got the cutest look on your face."

"This is no time for jokes! Don't you understand how serious this is?"

Jesus stood up and took the blankets out of my clenched fists, letting them fall back onto the sand. He held my hands in his reassuringly. I felt my terror begin to ebb away.

"Of course I do. Normally I'd be just as concerned as you, but Simon won't betray us. We're safe."

"How can you know for certain?" I asked.

"I just know." He kissed me playfully. I still wasn't satisfied; I pulled out of the kiss.

"I have to know. Please tell me."

He sighed. "Some things aren't mine to tell. I'm sorry; not everything can be for certain. Try to have a little faith."

He patted me on the shoulder and started to walk away. I watched his gentle yet firm feet scuttle up the hill. Suddenly I remembered something Simon had said.

"Did Simon call you Christ?" I called out as I jogged up to Jesus. He didn't answer for a moment. Finally he sighed.

"Yes."

Though my suspicions were confirmed, I tried to stay calm. "Why didn't you correct him?"

"They say that there's a potential Messiah in every generation. Who knows; he could be right. Or maybe you could be the Messiah." He smiled soothingly.

"But you preach peace; the Christ will be a warrior, a military leader."

"Maybe the prophets got it wrong."

My heart slowed and an icy sensation ran through my limbs. "What?"

"Maybe the Messiah will be different from anything we expected."

"When did you start believing this?"

"I'm not sure I believe it; it's just an interpretation I've been exploring."

"I believe you might be a prophet, but the Christ…? The last thing Israel needs is another false Messiah."

I could tell I was irritating him. His lips thinned ever so slightly when he was angry.

"It's just a name. Is it doing any harm?"

"It could."

"Stop worrying so much," he replied curtly.

My temper flared. His flippant attitude was annoying me.

"Sorry to be such a nuisance! I worry because I care for you. These others only love your new power; they would abandon _you_ in a second. I just want us to be careful. I believe you have a good message, but you can't let ego get in your way...Are you listening to me?"

"Of course." He stopped walking and turned to me. "It's just that I'm not in the mood to discuss this. We're not going to see each other for three weeks. I don't want our last words to be resentful or angry. Let's be happy for what we have right now."

My anger abated. I didn't want to argue with him either, not right now. I was already missing him. "You promise to think about this, though? That's all I ask."

"Yes, of course. I always value your advice; you know that."

We walked the rest of the way in meditative silence. When we reached the camp, Jesus was immediately escorted to the gathering crowd. I put the blankets away and tried to quell the quiet dread in my stomach.

* * *

Jesus left the next day with Peter, John, and James to preach in Hebron. I was instructed to take a few others to Bethel and do the same. I made sure Simon was part of my group. 

On the second night of our trip, as the others were going to sleep, I saw Simon get up and go away from the camp, most likely to urinate. Not knowing if I'd get another opportunity, I followed him. The new moon made it very difficult to see; I was following a shadow in a world of shadows. I wasn't sure when to confront him, but fate decided for me. I tripped over a rock and made enough noise to get his attention.

"Who's there?"

I grunted as I got off the ground. My hand was bleeding. "Judas."

"Go away. I'm not interested."

I snorted. "Don't flatter yourself."

"What?"

"I need to know if you're going to keep what you saw to yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't see anything."

"Come on, Simon. We both know the truth. Are you going to tell the others…or your fellow Zealots?"

"I'm not with the Zealots anymore. Everyone knows that."

"I don't believe you, but it doesn't matter right now. I need to know if you're going to…"

"No, of course not. Why would I?"

"Better question is why wouldn't you?"

"Because Jesus is the Messiah. He can do what the Zealots can't: out the Romans for good. It doesn't matter what he does for…recreation."

"Fine. But if you ever hurt him, I'll kill you myself."

"He's fortunate to have a protector like you."

I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or serious, but I let him pass. Self-interest was the best assurance of silence, and Simon was nothing if not self-interested. But what would he do if he realized Jesus wasn't the Christ? Things could get complicated very quickly.

* * *

We reached Bethel two days later to find disease and famine ravaging the inhabitants we had meant to teach. Corpses littered the ground. Children lay lethargically in the street, their stomachs distended and swollen. The adults looked like skeletons. Animals dropped dead in front of us. Flies swarmed the area, their buzzing the only sound worse than the groans of hunger. Horrendous, clandestine smells belched into the atmosphere. 

Why hadn't these people been helped? Why were they allowed to suffer like this? I tried to control my growing outrage. Now wasn't a time to get emotional. As the others retched and reeled, I ordered them to cover their faces and help the survivors. Since Simon was the fastest runner, I told him to get help from the nearest town.

I made my way through the wretched village. Almost everyone was dead or on death's threshold.

I searched in one hut and found a man who was still breathing. His eyes were wild and unfocused. The decaying carcass of a girl lay next to him, but he didn't even seem aware of it or the stench. I picked him up and carried him outside. He felt like a bundle of sticks in my arms. The fresh air seemed to revive him a little. I was shocked by his youth. The man was actually a boy no older than fifteen. The sunlight harshly lit his emaciated body. His features, now ghastly and gaunt, had evidently once been beautiful and strong. I poured some water over his parched, blistered lips. He sputtered and coughed painfully.

"Romans," he suddenly wheezed with a voice from the grave.

"What?"

"Water."

I gave him some more, and in a few minutes, he rasped, "We told them…there was a famine…They taxed us anyway…When there was nothing left, they plundered… everything in sight and…left us here to die…Then the illness came...Have you seen Rachel?"

He gasped laboriously one last time and went limp in my arms. His dull, glazed eyes seemed to stare at me reproachfully.

I held him for a few minutes, overwhelmed. How could people do this to other people? These "civilized" Romans came in, judged our culture, taxed us to death, and crucified us en masse at the littlest incentive…And yet, what could we do? People like the Zealots would never overcome a force like Rome. We would only be crushed if we resisted.

After I buried the boy, I went over to the others to tell them what I'd learned, but they already gotten similar stories from a couple of other dying souls. Enraged, they earnestly spoke of war and freedom. They spoke of battle without understanding the cost and consequences. When I ridiculed their naive ardor, they ignored me.

Simon returned with help by dusk, but it was too late. Only a couple dozen people had any chance of surviving. There was nothing we could do except give the dead a proper burial and mourn.

We returned to the main camp disheartened and weary to await Jesus' return.

* * *

The talk of uprising gained more momentum. The disciples spread out and used Bethel to incite fury. I quickly learned that not only were they saying that Jesus was the Messiah, they were also suggesting that he was a god. I tried to stop their blasphemy with reason and even threats, but they only looked on me with distain or disinterest. The disciples were swiftly becoming nothing more than blood-thirsty rebels. 

Jesus wasn't due to return for another week, and I realized I had to tell him what was happening before he was dropped in unprepared. Just as I was about to leave for Hebron, I heard a shout of jubilation. Jesus had returned early.

There he was, standing in the middle of a large crowd, greeting everyone. I was struck by how somber and tired he appeared. His followers were oblivious to his health. They had other things on their minds. He looked in my direction as if he sensed me through the mob. He finally spotted me and smiled, but his eyes were languid and blood-shot. I smiled back, trying to keep concern from wrinkling my brow.

Eventually I noticed a woman with him. We had women in our group, mostly the wives and relatives of the disciples, but she was different. She was definitely new and alone; no one but Jesus interacted with her. He would give her reassuring glances as she was jostled by the zealous crowd. She looked so familiar, somehow, but I couldn't remember where I'd seen her face. It took a few minutes for it to hit me.

She was a prostitute. I'd seen her my first year in Jerusalem when she was sold into slavery by her father. The man was obviously a drunkard; he could hardly hold the money the pimp gave him. This was a rather common scene, but what struck me was that Mary—at least, that's what it sounded like the father called her—viewed the whole barter and exchange with such calm and serenity, as if nothing affected her. Usually the girls were screaming or crying, but she just stood there like a statue, her eyes blazing with an internal flame. Her father, almost passed out from inebriation, tried to sloppily kiss and hug her good-bye. She merely stepped back and slapped him hard across the face. His face turned from red to purple, and he raised his hand to strike her, but the pimp stopped him. She was his property now, and he seemed quite pleased with his purchase. The father left. The pimp led Mary to her new life. I remembered feeling amazed that she had treated her father with such disrespect. It was the fifth commandment and a daughter's place to do her parents' biding, no matter how piggish the parents may be. I still gave her a begrudging amount of respect at the time, though. Some people were just asking for it.

But I didn't like having her in our mists. That's all we needed: the reputation of traveling in the company of whores. But for the moment, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and keep my mouth shut. If I did say anything, Jesus would just tell me she deserved a second chance. The moment she slipped though, she'd be gone.

The noise and excitement was annoying me. I decided to stroll around the perimeter of the camp and mull things over.

* * *

A couple of hours later, I stopped to rest near a tent. I heard voices from within. They were Simon's and Jesus'. I knew I should have respected their privacy, but for some reason, I couldn't move. 

"You've been telling them what?" asked Jesus.

"That you're the Son of God," Simon replied, "Is that wrong?"

Jesus didn't answer.

"Are you our true king?"

Jesus sighed. "Look, I need to rest. We'll talk further tomorrow."

I hastily got up and recommenced my anxious walk. Had Jesus shrugged off Simon's claim? Surely he must know the significance of this?

* * *

I was too troubled to sleep. I ended up pacing the rest of the night. In spite of my lack of sleep, I felt clearer headed by the time the dawn painted the sky. I could plainly see where this would all lead if he didn't stop it. 

Suddenly he appeared, the morning sun creating a brilliant aura about him. He seemed much more rested than yesterday. All I wanted to do was embrace and kiss him, but I had to talk to him first.

"Jesus!" I called as I ran up to him, "I accidentally heard you talking with Simon last night and—"

"I know."

"What?"

"I knew you were listening."

"Then tell me why you're encouraging this! Have you started to believe their lies yourself?"

"That's what I like about you. You never mince words."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

"No, I don't think you do. This is dangerous ground we're on. Don't you see that your disciples are using you as some kind of symbol? They don't even care about your words."

He didn't respond; he didn't even look at me.

"Listen, I don't like what I see. All I ask is for your undivided attention."

He kept his back to me, but I continued anyway.

"Remember, I've always told you the truth, whether or not you wanted to hear it." I squeezed his shoulder, but he removed my hand and continued walking. Had I done something wrong?

I called after him, "You've inspired them too much. They really believe they've found the Messiah! They'll turn on you when they figure out they're wrong."

I ran after him. Why was I having to fight for his attention? He always listened to me before.

"Remember, I was your first supporter; I helped you start all this. You were simply a man then, and you don't need to be anything else now." I tried to grasp his shoulder again, but he pulled away again. I found my anger rising.

"You know, every word you say is twisted around for their own purposes. They call this distorted mass the truth, and they'll hurt you if they ever think you lied."

My anger abated. I couldn't stand seeing him in such a bad mood.

"You know, maybe we both should go back to Nazareth. Make furniture and live a simple life like our parents. You wouldn't get hurt; I wouldn't have to nag you with my worries." I smiled, but he seemed annoyed and tried to elude me. My temper flared again. I grabbed his arm to keep him from walking away.

"Well, if you don't care for us, how about for our people? Do you want us all to be killed? The punishment for sedition is death, and they definitely have the means to kill every last one of us. How many Jews have we seen lined up on their crosses beside the roads? And if you think the taxes are outrageous now, just think how much worse they could be. All the Romans need is one reason to crush any resistance in our people, to set us up as the ultimate example. We can't push this too far."

Suddenly, Jesus was pulled away from me and taken into the group of gathering disciples. My impatience got the better of me, and I began to shout over the noise.

"Please listen to my warning! I don't want us to die for a cause we don't believe in! Every hour this continues is another hour towards our destruction. Your other followers choose not to see the danger; they'd rather think of their futures in heaven than their lives in the present. They're all fools! Everything has gone sour!" Everyone stared at me. I was too frustrated and upset to care.

Jesus made some excuse to the others and came over to me. A childish thrill ran through me. He led me into a tent. He seemed upset; I wanted to let him know everything would be alright, if he followed my advice. I tried to embrace him, but he stopped me.

"Judas, no."

"Why not?"

"I just want to talk a little, that's all."

"Okay."

We sat awkwardly in silence for a couple of minutes. He seemed to be deep in thought.

"I'm guessing Hebron didn't go too well?" I said in a feeble attempt to break the quiet.

"No, actually everything went fine there. I'm a little tired, is all. I haven't been sleeping well lately." He smiled weakly as he rubbed his neck.

"Well, now that we're together again, I can help you with that," I replied as I started to massage his back. He jerked away as if my hands burned him.

"What's wrong?" I asked, hurt and surprised by his rejection.

"Nothing," he said nervously as he edged away from me. He stared at the floor for another minute. "I need to talk to you about something, Judas."

"You said that already. Why are you delaying? What is it?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady and upbeat.

"…We…We can't be together anymore," he answered quickly, his eyes still on the ground.

Was he joking? "What? Why?"

"God showed me something in Hebron…something I don't understand."

I knew that would catch up with us someday. "Why didn't God tell us it was wrong before?"

"What? No, it wasn't that." He got up and moved even farther away from me.

My anger was rising, but I tried to keep calm. I stood up. "What did God show you then?"

Jesus chuckled wearily and said, "It doesn't make any sense, really. I mean, why would…" His voice faltered when he looked in my eyes.

"Why would…?"

He looked away. "I can't…I'm sorry."

I sighed in exasperation and tried to gather my patience. After a minute, I glanced over again at Jesus. Tears were running silently down his cheeks. The need to comfort him replaced my frustration. I walked over to him and hugged him to me like a child. He cried into my chest for a few minutes. I had never seen him like this before. His fear and sadness scared me.

"Please, tell me what happened. I can help you," I said soothingly. He pulled gently away from my arms.

"No, you can't...I'm sorry, but we have to get away from each other before it's too late."

"What do you mean 'before it's too late'?"

He wouldn't even look at me. What did I do wrong? With effort I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"So, you want me to leave then?" I asked.

Still he didn't answer. I was sick of his melodramatic silences. My temper snapped.

"Answer me for once! What are you, a coward?! Can you not even tell me why you hate me, or that you found someone else?!" My eyes started to water. I turned away and concentrated on stopping my tears.

"There's no one else, Judas. And…I don't want you to leave me," he said softly.

I looked up in surprise. His sad, tender eyes pierced my already wounded heart. I just wanted to kiss him, to hold him to me and never let go.

"You want me to stay?" I asked in disbelief and bewilderment.

He continued firmly, the tears gone from his eyes. "You're the only one who tells the truth about what's going on around here. I need you by my side, but only as a friend. I'm sorry I can't explain why right now, but please, will you stay?"

I just looked at him for a minute, unsure of what to say. I didn't want to leave. My life was nothing without him. Yet I wasn't sure I could pretend the last few years hadn't happened. My love wasn't as easily cast aside as Jesus' obviously was…After knowing happiness for so long, I'd be dead within the year if I left. And maybe I could help him. The others were quickly getting fanatical, and he trusted people too much. After a while, he might even change his mind and take me back...but I knew in my gut that I was deluding myself. Something about this reeked of finality.

"I'll stay," I said. I quickly left the tent, the pain in my heart smoldering violently. My world was crumbling around me.


	3. Chapter 3

Jesus and I avoided each other over the next couple of days. He was busy teaching and preparing to go to Jerusalem for Passover. I tried to keep out of his way as much as possible; just seeing him scalded my heart. I spent my time helping out where I could, keeping my mouth shut for the most part. The others liked my new, defeated attitude. They tried to include me in their activities and conversations, but I preferred my own company.

Surprisingly, the darkness didn't come over me; the demon slept as soundly as before. I was confused to say the least. Coming across a dead animal had once set it off, but losing the love of my life didn't even make it stir. I decided not to analyze my emotions too much. I recklessly hoped that the demon was asleep for good.

I noticed that Jesus was spending more and more time with Mary. The smile, the laugh he used to show only to me were now bestowed onto her. He flaunted their new connection in front of me as much as possible. He obviously wanted me to see that I was easily replaced. Embittered despite my best efforts to ignore them, I wanted to tell everyone else what she was so that she'd be kicked out. However, I wasn't sure if Jesus really wanted her or was just trying to make me jealous. He'd never shown serious interest in women before now. Had he changed sides on me? Was that why he'd ended our relationship? I pretended it didn't bother me, but of course it did.

I began to day-dream about raping him, about making him remember what it felt like to be together. I figured I would get him drunk or even drug him somehow, and then drag him off to some obscure cave. There, he would learn to love me again. We would abandon the others and go back to Nazareth. We would be happy…But it was always with a hidden, sardonic laugh that I regarded my "plan." I was grateful, but at the same time regretful, that my sanity kept me from carrying it out.

* * *

Late one afternoon, I was watching the others ask about Jesus about their futures—as one would a palm reader. Jesus began to berate Simon for being so violent. He caressed his shoulder. I rolled my eyes. If Jesus thought he could make me jealous by pretending to be attracted to someone like Simon the _Zealot_, he had another thing coming.

But when Mary went over to Jesus and pulled him from the crowd, my heart burned. They were actually touching—in public! Only a married man and woman were allowed to touch each other in public. And then she began to _massage_ him. Did she have no decency? It was one thing to let a whore into the group, but quite another to let her _stroke _you. And Jesus just sat back and enjoyed it! That was the last straw. We didn't need to be known as the group that openly socialized with whores. We'd be seen as a joke, as a group of party-goers. I decided to finally tell everyone what she really was.

"It seems to me a strange thing, mystifying, that a man like you can waste his time on women of her _kind_."

She looked at me with angry astonishment. I smirked. "I know your dirty, little secret. I've always known," I thought. Jesus refused to look at me.

"Yes, I can understand that she _amuses_, but to let her kiss you, stroke your hair, is hardly in your line." I grabbed her arm. "It's not that I object to her profession—"

He was still ignoring me. I pushed her down the stairs. Jesus and some others immediately went to help her up. Why?

"—But she doesn't fit in well with what you teach and say. It doesn't help us if you're _inconsistent_. They only need a small excuse to put us all away!"

He finally looked at me. I was elated to get his attention at last, even though he was obviously angry.

"Who are _you_ to criticize her? Who are _you_ to despise her? Leave her alone. She's with me now."

Had he really just said that? I hid my resentment with mockery as he continued to lecture me.

"If your slate is clean, then you can throw stones. If your slate is not, then leave her alone!"

What, should we have no common laws or morals? I wanted to rebuke him, but I held my tongue, determined not to get into an argument. The others were silently supporting Mary and Jesus, even though they knew the truth now.

Mary walked by. I wouldn't be completely defeated; I pretended to ogle her lewdly. To my surprise, Peter grabbed me and threatened to hit me. However, I knew he was a coward at heart, so I merely smiled at his threat. Jesus spoke again. "Peter's in trouble," I chanted to myself gleefully. Peter let me go and I walked away. Jesus' angry voice echoed around me.

"I'm amazed that men like you can be so shallow, thick and slow; there is not a man among you who know or cares if I come or go!"

The others denied Jesus' claims. Jesus should have realized long ago that they didn't care about him or his message. I understood him, though. He'd forgotten that, but he'd remember soon.

Suddenly I felt a hand grip my shoulder. I heard Jesus' voice in my ear.

"Not one, not one of you!"

He pushed me half-heartedly and stormed off. His words cut me deeply. How could he say that to me? When did I become the bad guy?

I looked around and found everyone staring at me. It was an interesting sensation, having the hatred of forty people concentrated on me all at once. I tried to ignore them.

I began to feel sorry for upsetting Jesus so much. He had a point, of course, but so did I. Not too long ago we would have debated our differences openly and logically. Was _everything_ degenerating between us?

Peter put his hand on my shoulder as an apology, but I barely felt it. I glared at Simon's puzzled face. I knew he wanted to ask me what was wrong between Jesus and me, but I'd never give him that satisfaction. I went to a shadowed corner and leaned against the cold stone wall.

I saw Mary soothing Jesus, massaging his hair and chest. My jealousy flared again. I tried to keep quiet; everyone was against me, and getting into another argument wouldn't help my cause. But when I saw her getting ready to put myrrh on him, I lost my temper. We had just come from a town starving and dying from poverty, and here she was using an ointment worth more than its weight in gold. I grabbed the bottle out of her hands. I was annoyed at her for buying such a product. I was more angry with Jesus for allowing her to waste it on him, but my love blinded me to the real culprit. I concentrated on Mary.

"Woman, your fine ointment, brand new and expensive, should have been saved for the poor. Why has it been wasted? We could have raised maybe three hundred silver pieces or more!" I then appealed to Jesus and the others. "People who are hungry, people who are starving, matter more than your feet and hair!"

Jesus knew I was right. I could see the anger in his eyes for embarrassing him in front of everyone. To my frustration, he refused to even acknowledge his mistake. He stared obstinately at me without remorse. Suddenly Mary snatched the bottle back from me. I realized Jesus was too stubborn to listen to me; I stood up and frowned at Mary. She had driven us completely apart.

"Try not to get worried, try not to fixate on problems that upset you," she said soothingly.

All of a sudden she reached out and caressed my face. I was too stunned to move away. I'd never been touched affectionately by a woman before. Was this how my mother's touch felt? The caress lasted only a second before she turned back to Jesus.

I'd just insulted and hurt her, and she had treated me like a scared child. I automatically began to try to figure her out. In Jerusalem I'd observed all the tricks hookers used to earn more money for themselves. I could always see the resentment and spite in their eyes, even as they pretended to be caring. Mary's eyes, on the other hand, had been soft and forgiving; they'd been a mother's eyes. To my amazement, I could only conclude that she was simply being kind.

I became ashamed for treating her so badly. I couldn't bring myself to criticize her anymore. In a way, I pitied her; she must've thought money was the only way to demonstrate her devotion.

Jesus, on the other hand, still should have known better; he should have stopped her from making such an extravagant gesture.

I went up to Thomas and Luke, as I found them slightly less irritating than the rest of the followers. I needed to fully convince whoever I could that I was right. If I got them on my side, maybe they would talk to Jesus. He'd listen to my logic if he thought it came from someone else.

"Can you believe him?" I said, "Allowing that kind of waste on himself? That ointment is worth a whole year's wages!"

"Well, he'd just tired. He needs to relax," Thomas replied weakly.

"He can't relax with cheaper ointment? Come on. I think he's becoming too caught up in himself. He's letting these kinds of things slide. I tell you, he doesn't know what he's doing any more." They were resistant, but I could see that they were going to agree with me, at least silently.

Suddenly I heard Jesus address me. He was actually going to fight me on this?

"Surely you're not saying we have the resources to save the poor from their lot in life? There will be poor always, pathetically struggling—"

I didn't believe that; I was surprised Jesus did.

"—Look at the good things you've got!"

He knew I didn't mean it like that. I wasn't being ungrateful for the things we could afford, I just didn't want to see money wasted on things we didn't need. But I couldn't explain my case. Jesus spoke over my words. Fed-up with him, I looked away.

"Think while you still have me! Move while you still see me! You'll be lost, and you'll be sorry, when I'm die!"

I'd never heard him say anything so morbid before. I looked over just in time to see him collapse to the ground. Was he having a seizure? I'd never forgive myself if something bad happened to him because of me.

Before I could reach him, however, Thaddeus blocked my way. He obviously thought I was just going to make everything worse. I didn't physically resist him; he was stronger than me and violent; I suspected that he was part of Simon's crowd. Luckily, Jesus seemed to be okay. He got up. Thaddeus became distracted, and I was able to get by. I went up to Jesus, wanting to apologize for upsetting him, but I was unable to organize the words. Mary supported him and glared at me like I had done all this in malice. Maybe I had.

I could only look at him plaintively as they disappeared from sight.


	4. Chapter 4

_I got an idea for a part of this chapter from a story by Slytheriness called Imperfection. I hope the author doesn't mind! I liked the concept so much that I just had to use it._

The next day we walked to Jerusalem. I stayed at the back of our procession, trying to delay as much as possible. I had no desire to be in that morally decayed city again. I'd tried to convince Jesus not to preach there, but, unsurprisingly, he wouldn't listen to me. He apparently wanted to pretend I didn't even exist anymore. Why had he asked me to stay anyway? I thought about leaving the group on my own, but ultimately I couldn't. It was silly and weak of me, but I had to be near him; I had to see him, even though it caused me more pain than pleasure.

There were massive numbers of people pouring through the city gates for Passover. When we got closer, I saw some people had palm branches and cloaks in their hands. They looked like they were looking for someone. I wondered what was going on; this wasn't part of the traditional Passover celebrations. My questions were answered when some of them spotted Jesus. A great cry rose up like an ocean wave. A desperate bitterness engulfed me at the same time. Jesus obviously hadn't seriously considered my warning. Simon and Peter were in the crowd, cheering with the rest. They must have been the ones that organized this. Had Jesus sent them, or had they gone on their own?

I let myself be carried along the current of bodies. Jesus was beaming at the crowd. I was sickened by his new-found love of attention. I'd thought that he was above such base ambitions. I guess I had assumed too much about him.

The crowd shouted "Hosanna! Save, now!" They thought Jesus was going to save all of them from the oppression of Rome, that he had come to Jerusalem to take back the city. I heard murmuring that Jesus was God incarnate, but the blasphemers disappeared into the waves of the crowd before I could identify them. This was getting out of hand. I watched as he bathed in the adoration of the masses. I leaned against a pillar, too nauseated to continue.

A couple of Sadducees appeared. They told Jesus to disperse the crowd. I felt relieved. Maybe this madness would stop before it turned into an all-out riot.

To my dismay, Jesus told them that it was useless. His disregard for the priests astounded me. The Sadducees didn't care about the common man, but they were in league with Rome. They had to be respected, at least to their faces.

The mob supported Jesus for the moment, however, and he relished it. He was letting himself be turned into a power-hungry demigod. The man who had helped me rediscover my faith was now pushing his aside to make room for glory.

The priests disappeared, probably to go pray that God would destroy this annoying Galilean.

I joined Jesus, Mary, and Peter at the front of the rabble. In a crowd like this, who knew what kind of people might be lurking. I didn't want to see him hurt, even though I disapproved of his behavior. I'd still die for him if I had to. However, I couldn't keep the disappointment out of my eyes. He tried to ask me what was wrong—the first time in days he'd shown any genuine concern—but I shrugged him off. If he didn't know what was amiss, he was a bigger fool than I could have ever imagined.

That's when I heard the chant: "Hey, Jesus! Would you **die** for me?"

The crowd wanted blood, and they weren't shy about asking for it. This was what I had been afraid of. I stared at Jesus to make sure he understood the significance. He returned my gaze with fear in his eyes. I had been right all along. I forced myself to grin, but it was without joy. Sometimes I really didn't want to be right.

I sat on my haunches and waited for whatever came next.

I didn't have to wait long. One of the priests led a group of Roman guards into the square. A tense quiet fell immediately. This was going to end in blood. I heard Peter struggling to get Mary to safety.

Jesus raised his arms to indicate to the others that they should stand down. He looked so small, so helpless. I got up and stood by him in silent support. He had lost control of the crowd. There was nothing he could do.

Simon, of course, led the charge. I could see the shock in Jesus' face as the two sides fought viciously below us. Had he really not realized how much everything had gotten out of hand?

The fight was soon ended. The crazed multitude easily overtook the small group of soldiers. Simon led the victory cry. Jesus and I both looked on with revulsion. For the first time in days, I felt like we connected. We were united by our disdain for the stupidity on display below us. I smiled, trying to make light out of it, showing him that it wasn't beyond repair. In truth, I wasn't so sure myself.

Simon came up to Jesus and starting gloating. I got as far away from him as possible. I sat down and prepared to wait out the storm of enthusiasm raging around me. Simon encouraged Jesus to take advantage of the situation. I couldn't help but react with evident aversion.

"Every single one of them would do whatever you asked _him_ to," Simon said seductively.

Had he just told Jesus he could have any man he wanted? Would this never end?

Why wasn't Jesus putting a stop to this? He just let them carry on like excited schoolchildren. Weapons were being handed out like candy.

Jesus still said nothing.

Our connection was severed completely. I couldn't understand his inaction. I walked away, too revolted to say anything. Perhaps Jesus didn't actively seek power and adoration, but he wasn't resisting it very strongly. He wasn't completely corrupted, but I didn't know how long that would be the case.

Something had to be done, but what? Did I even have the ability to do anything?

I wanted to walk out right then and there and never look back, never think back on Jesus of Nazareth, but I continued to watch, unable to turn away. The others pushed their weapons in Jesus' face as if asking for a blessing. Finally, he spoke, causing the insanity to stop with his first word. However, he wasn't speaking the way he should have.

"Neither you, Simon, nor the fifty thousand. Nor the Romans, nor the Jews. Nor Judas, nor the twelve —"

Why was he picking on me? I hadn't even said anything. Besides, wasn't I still one of the chosen twelve? Had he removed me from that position as well?

"—Nor the priests, nor the scribes, nor doomed Jerusalem itself…"

His voice trailed off. What was he trying to say? He wasn't making any sense.

"Understand what power is."

Even though he was looking the other direction, at that moment I felt like I was the only person he was addressing. I became lost in his heartrending voice as the others slowly dispersed, their dreams of blood being disappointed.

"Understand what glory is. Understand at all. If you knew all that I knew, my poor Jerusalem. You see the truth, but you live a lie. But you live a lie."

With intense sadness I realized that he was practically telling me to face the reality of this situation. We were both living a lie, but I was the only one who could see it. Why did I have to be the one? I didn't want this responsibility.

"While you live, your troubles are many, poor Jerusalem. To conquer death, you only have to die. You only have to die."

He was getting macabre again. I hated to see him in that frame of mind so familiar to me. The strain was clearly getting to be too much for him. When would he finally break? Was I truly the only one who could save him from himself?

The crowd was completely gone now. Even Peter and Mary had disappeared. Jesus stood alone in the empty square as night fell. He looked so lost, so confused. I climbed down from my perch. He didn't even turn to me as I approached. I put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed in reassurance. I burned badly for him, but I knew he needed a friend.

"I told you about them," I chided as gently as I could, "But at least now you know who your true friends are now."

He turned around and faced me. We stood there in silence, staring in each other's softened eyes. There was a tension, a spark between us, but I was too afraid to act on it. Did he want me too, or was I just imagining things? I couldn't read his emotions anymore.

He stepped closer and patted my neck to praise my loyalty. I put my hand over his before he could take it away. He still didn't pull his hand back when I began to tenderly massage it.

We stayed that way for a couple of minutes, lost in each other's affectionate gaze and touch. Finally, at the same exact moment, we leaned in and kissed. It was hesitant, almost coy, as if it was our first. Nevertheless, it quickly turned into a violent and lustful expression of our repressed love. We pressed our bodies together in mutual longing, wrapped our arms around each other as if to shield ourselves from the world. I loved him so much, and at that moment, I felt his love for me as well.

All of a sudden, it was over. Jesus tore himself from my lips and jerked himself from my arms. He stared at me with sad, almost angry eyes. He shook his head several times as if to show his disapproval for our actions, but I knew he was lying to himself: he wanted me as much as I wanted him. I was too flabbergasted by his strange behavior to say anything. One minute everything had been as it once was; what had changed so quickly? Was he fighting some demon of his own I didn't know about?

Without another word he broke into a run and was soon gone from my sight. I knew where he was going. I followed his resonating footsteps.


	5. Chapter 5 Revised 050507

_A special thanks to Slytheriness, mildetryth, and Angel of Music-Lone Wolf for reviewing my work. I really appreciate your encouragement and feedback; it keeps me going. :-) _

_One more note: I used the word "Hashem" as a replacement word for "God", because a Jewish priest probably would have avoided saying "God" in everyday speech. I realize I'm being anal, but I thought it was an interesting tidbit and I just wanted to use it. :-)_

The Temple was in even worse shape than I remembered. When I had left Jerusalem, only moneychangers and sacrificial animals for sale were allowed in, and that was bad enough. Now the Temple was a veritable bazaar. Dancers, prostitutes, butchers, gamblers, and all kinds of merchants were littering the entranceway, trying to push and barter their goods. I spotted Jesus being shoved and bumped by the crowd, looking with horror and loathing at the spectacle around him. No matter how long I'd known him, his naivety always managed to surprise me. He had often called our generation faithless, and yet he was surprised by the manifestations of that lack of faith.

He was getting angry now, if not even enraged. Being used to such examples of debauchery, I didn't react as strongly, but the writhing, groping crowd was getting to me as well. I had nearly decided to wait for Jesus outside when suddenly I heard him scream. The sound of it sent a spasm down my spine.

"My temple should be a house of prayer!"

With alarm I watched as he started grabbing goods and throwing them about wildly.

"But you have made it into a den of thieves!"

He was completely out of control. I became angry and afraid. Why was he doing this? Did he really think it would do any good? He was just going to bring more attention and infamy to himself.

"Get out! Get out!" he shrieked hysterically.

The panicked crowd rushed to the entrance to get away from the violent madman. I was forcefully transported and nearly trampled to death by the wave of bodies. Outside the Temple and finally escaping from the mob, I caught my breath and tried to collect my thoughts.

Jesus had gone too far. Disapproving of something was one thing, but actually assaulting people and their property was quite another. I didn't like having a marketplace in the Temple either, but that didn't give me the right to hurt those who did.

"He's losing control, isn't he?" a voice calmly whispered behind me. I reeled around to behold a kohen, a priest of the Temple.

"What business is it of yours?" I responded defensively. I didn't like priests very much. A kohen got his position most often through inheritance, not ability.

"I make it my business when the Temple is desecrated by a lunatic."

I gave him a withering look and began to walk away. I was the only one allowed insult Jesus like that. He didn't even know the man.

"Wait!" Annas called with thinly veiled impatience, "I apologize. I realize he's your friend. Just listen to what I have to say."

Despite my misgivings, I stopped.

"Who are you exactly, anyway?" I said as I turned to face him again.

"Annas."

Annas? He was a very influential priest, almost the same level as the high priest himself. What did he want with me?

"You're Judas Iscariot, correct?"

"How do you know my name?"

"I have some connections. Anyway, Judas, you're obviously an intelligent man—"

Did he think he could manipulate me with false flattery?

"—so I know you'll appreciate a fellow voice of reason. We have reports that Jesus of Nazareth has committed blasphemy, that he is called the Son of Hashem and the Messiah. Does this sound familiar to you?"

I couldn't hide the flash of recognition from my eyes. Annas smirked.

"You know the seriousness of this crime. It breaks one of Hashem's most important commandments. Our faith forgives those who are ignorant, but Jesus is a Jew and he knows the laws. He is responsible for the weight of his words in this world and the next."

I listened mutely to his words, my mind barely able to function. I was so worried about Jesus being hurt or killed, being taken away from me, that I hadn't even considered the state of his soul.

"He must confess his crimes in order to be forgiven," Annas added.

I snapped out of my torpor. "You don't care about his crimes; you only care about maintaining the status quo. You're appointed by Rome; you're in league with them. You only want to stop Jesus because he is becoming more powerful than you."

"Does that make my point any less valid? Actually, I think your point makes it more so. There are many good leaders who let power corrupt them. Remember the story of Saul, our first king? He was a peasant who was appointed to rule by Hashem Himself. By all accounts a noble and righteous ruler until he began to ignore and disobey Hashem. Do you remember what happened to Saul?"

I glared at him. I knew the answer of course, and it startled me. Saul had nearly ravaged the country with his ambition and pride, then, once defeated, he had killed himself. Annas could see my mind working feverishly. He gazed at me with cool understanding and smirked again. I was getting really tired of his mouth.

"Who sent you anyway?" I asked heatedly, feeling myself backed into a corner.

"Caiaphas."

I turned away to hide my growing anxiety. The high priest only got involved when the most heinous crimes had been committed.

Seeing the effect the name had on me, Annas approached me.

"Look. Your friend will never admit to his crimes if he hasn't done so by now. He needs to be brought to the court by force."

Was Jesus really that far gone?

"We need someone who will hand him over to us," he continued, "Someone who knows his movements, his plans…" He sighed. "To be frank, we need you."

He was asking me to betray Jesus. I turned to look at him with revulsion and scorn. I backed away from the sinisterly smirking priest, shaking my head in mute refusal.

I ran back into the Temple. I had to tell Jesus that they were after him. I had to get him out of Jerusalem before it was too late.

When I found Jesus, he was being swarmed by lepers and beggars. They were pulling and tearing at his clothes like starving rats. He was screaming for them to leave him alone.

"Jesus!" I cried involuntarily as he disappeared into the horde. I picked up rocks and hurled them at the crazed people, shouting at them to go away. Unable to defend themselves or fight back properly, they dispersed from me like flies from a hand.

Jesus lay of the floor, unconscious. I ran to him. Fortunately he was breathing steadily and apparently unhurt. I tried to rouse him. His eyes fluttered, but didn't open completely; he murmured incoherently and occasionally jerked as if in pain. The lepers were slowly inching their way back to us; I could not wait for him to regain consciousness. I draped his arm over my shoulders and lifted him up. He was still out of it, but when I began to walk, he started to carry some of his own weight. We began to make our way back to camp.

* * *

When we got there, no one was awake except Mary, who was sitting near the dying embers of the fire. At first I thought about avoiding her. Then I berated myself for being afraid of a woman. I should have been thankful that it wasn't one of the other less loyal disciples. Jesus didn't need to be seen in his weakened state by people with loose tongues, and a whore was nothing if not a keeper of secrets. 

Mary heard our stumbling approach and turned around. When she saw Jesus, she cried out in anguish and ran to us.

"What happened?" she asked as she felt Jesus' forehead and caressed his face worriedly.

"I think he's sick," I lied. I didn't want to embarrass him by saying he had fainted.

My vague explanation sounded pathetic to my ears, but she accepted it without protest and helped me carry him to his pallet. She covered him with his blanket. I could see the affection in her eyes. Was she in love with him?

I knelt down beside her.

"Go get some water and rags," I told her quietly.

"Why? Is he hurt?" she asked, quickly scanning his body for wounds.

"He's been touching lepers, if that counts." But I didn't say that.

"No, no, he's fine. Just dirty is all. It's been a long day." I smiled weakly. She gave me a disbelieving glance but went out without another word to collect the things.

Once I was sure she was gone, I stroked Jesus' hair. He was so peaceful, so beautiful when he slept. It made me realize how tired and worn he looked when awake. He wasn't suited for this kind of life. God had asked too much of this peasant.

I heard Mary returning and pulled back my hand before she saw what I was doing. Together we washed his face, hands, and feet. He still didn't wake up. The events of the day must have really drained him. I could tell Mary didn't want to leave when we had finished, but I didn't want her there anymore.

"Thanks for your help," I said as politely as I could, "I think he just needs to sleep now. I'll stay up in case he needs me. You should probably go to bed."

She stared at him contemplatively for a moment before responding to my words.

"I'll stay up with you, if you don't mind. I want to make sure he's okay."

I was surprised and annoyed by her assertiveness. To avoid suspicion, I had no choice but to nod my head in consent. We sat in silence. Eventually both of us dozed off.

* * *

A little while later I woke up. I needed to relieve myself. I left as quietly as I could and made my way to the latrine. 

On my way back, I stopped a moment to look at the stars. They were shining brilliantly tonight, more brilliantly than I'd ever seen them before. I tried to find the constellations a Greek had shown me once, but I quickly gave that up. Instead, I began to create my own massive pictures of everyday objects: a hammer, a fish, a house. I smiled to myself and enjoyed the deafening quiet of the night. I felt truly at home in the stillness and emptiness of the darkness. I let myself become lost in the expanse above me. Compared to the heavens, nothing on Earth was of great importance. Humans were so small, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. The truth of this thought would have bothered most people, but it didn't bother me, at least not anymore. I simply continued to look up at the sky in dreamlike wonder.

* * *

Eventually I made it back to the tent. Imagine my surprise when I saw Mary not only awake, but leaning over the still-sleeping Jesus as if she was about to kiss him. Even I had been fooled for a while by her motherly, virtuous act, but now I had her red-handed. Once a whore, always a whore. She didn't hear me as I got closer; she was concentrating on Jesus. I knelt down and settled in to watch. She noticed my movement and lifted her head to see my smiling face. Her eyes shone with guilt. Sometimes I really loved being right. 

Jesus suddenly roused from his sleep. He must have felt her kiss. He glanced at her and then saw me. He put his head in his hand in shame. His scheme to make me jealous was exposed. I walked around him victoriously. I knelt down on the other side of Mary, patting my heart to show how truly _touched_ I was by their "relationship." I pretended to kiss her temple like a lover in heat, all the while staring up at Jesus to make sure he was watching me. "You see?" I thought to him, "I can pretend just as well as you can. But we both know the truth, don't we? We know who we are and what she is."

Mary tried to slap me, but I was expecting that reaction and caught her hand before she could. I childishly feigned to move in for another kiss. Angry and insulted, she snatched her hand from mine and stood up. Still relishing the moment, I slowly stood up as well.

Jesus had difficulty looking me in the eye. Why hadn't he said anything yet? Anxiety suddenly seized my heart. He wasn't going to choose her over me, was he?

He still said nothing. Mary got fed-up and ran away. Jesus didn't follow.

I felt more reassured, but I was still afraid of rejection; I had no idea what he was thinking. I moved in to give him a tentative pat on the shoulder, but he stopped me. Disappointment and annoyance came to his eyes. He shook his head and went after Mary.

My chest began to burn from sadness and humiliation. That was the last straw.

* * *

I steadily made my way through the filthy streets to the Temple.

As I walked, I tried to convince myself that I wasn't doing this because he had chosen Mary over me. It was more than that. It was the crowds and the blasphemy and the madness of the entire situation. He had become oblivious to reason. He had become Saul, but luckily, he didn't yet have the authority of Saul. I could stop him before he got completely out of control. If he admitted to everyone that he wasn't some kind of god or the Messiah, he'd lose favor. The Sanhedrin might have him scourged for his crime, but wounds could heal. The dead couldn't come back to life.

Yet no matter how much I reasoned with myself, I knew in my heart that I had been revolted by the idea of betrayal until I saw him go after her.

My walking slowed until it eventually stopped completely. I wasn't going to betray him because of something as petty and stupid as that. I wasn't going to let my emotions get the better of me.

I slumped against a wall, closing my eyes against the harsh murk of the night. Where did I go from here? What was the right thing to do?

* * *

"Wow. You look like shit," a sultry voice said over my head, breaking into my despairing thoughts. 

I opened my eyes and looked up to behold a young man of no more than twenty years. His apparently handsome face was dimly lit by the smoldering of his cigarette.

I didn't reply to his comment. He knelt beside me and smiled charmingly. Closer up he reminded me a little of Jesus. His hair and features were very similar to Jesus', but his eyes were completely different. He had the unpredictable, calculating eyes of someone who had lived on the streets a long time. He had my eyes.

I immediately lusted for this boy. I needed my moral dilemma to dissolve into sweat and flesh. I stroked his grimy face with the back of my equally grubby fingers. He grinned knowingly.

"I can always tell. Come on; follow me. I'll show you a good time."

He snuffed his cigarette out on the wall, stood up, and held out his hand. I took it without saying a word. As we searched for an empty alley, he made small talk.

"Silent type, I see. I like them quiet; they're so much more…discrete." He slipped his arm around my waist.

He continued to chat about the piggish Romans and the lack of customers. He was revealing too much information about himself; I got the feeling that he was used to no one paying attention to him. I could sympathize.

"How long have you been doing this?" I suddenly asked, interrupting him mid-sentence. I don't know why I asked that. I honestly didn't want to know anything about him.

"Okay, not so silent then…About five years, I guess."

"Why did you start?" I couldn't stop myself.

"Why does anyone start? I needed the money."

"What happened to your parents?"

He pulled away and turned to face me. He tried to sound flirtatious, but his irritation was clear. "Once you start you don't shut up, do you? Do you want an authorized biography or something?"

"No."

"Good."

We walked in silence until we found a suitable alley. I just wanted to dissipate into the darkness like I had done so many times before, but I couldn't. I listened to him fumble with his clothes.

"What are you waiting for, permission? Drop your pants already."

The reality of the moment began to dawn on me. What was I doing here with this kid?

"Are you going to do nothing all night, mister? 'Cause that'll cost you extra, you know."

I didn't know why, but suddenly I hated him. I hated his fumbling and his professionalism; I hated his voice and his smell. He utterly nauseated me.

Without warning, I grabbed his throat and slammed him against the wall. Such a vile person should suffer. Before he could protest, I furiously forced my mouth onto his like a vulture kissing a carcass. With animalistic brutality, I gnawed his lip and tongue until I tasted blood. All the while, I wished it was Jesus writhing beneath my grasp.

The blinding rage and hate gradually drained away, and I realized what I was doing. I quickly pulled away and saw the pain and terror in the boy's eyes, my eyes. At that moment he looked only sixteen. A drop of blood glistened on his lip.

What had I done? Why had I done it? For the first time in my life, I had lost all control.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, in shock over my wild behavior. I wiped the blood from my mouth with my unoccupied hand.

The boy only continued to gape at me with alarm and terror. I examined him intensely for a few seconds. What was it about him that had made me act that way? Was it that he looked too much like Jesus? Did I hate Jesus that much? Or was it that he reminded me of myself?

The boy started to gasp, and I realized that I was choking him. Startled, I let him go. As he caught his breath I threw what money I had down on the ground as a paltry compensation and ran away as fast as I could.

I had tried to avoid what I had to do, and I had nearly ended up killing that boy. What was I becoming? This indecision was driving me insane. I knew what I had to do, and I knew it was right. It didn't matter if I was doing it for the wrong reason; it was still the right thing to do. I had to turn Jesus in.

* * *

Halfway to the Temple I could feel my resolve slipping again. I ran faster as if to escape from my annoying persistent doubts. I reasoned with myself, then tried to block my thoughts once that didn't work anymore, but I still felt dread and uncertainty churning ferociously in my stomach. I ignored the ever-growing queasiness as best I could. 

But by the time I got to the Temple, I had almost decided to turn back again and give Jesus one last chance.

Suddenly, a priest suddenly emerged from the shadows in front of me as if he were made of gloom himself. Startled, I ran in the opposite direction only to find another priest blocking my way. No matter where I turned, another one popped up. They were everywhere; I couldn't escape. How had they known I'd be here? Was this a sign that I was doing the right thing? There was no other explanation.

Caiaphas himself appeared. I tried to collect my thoughts and my breath. I reminded myself that I shouldn't be afraid, that I had _wanted _to talk to them. Jesus would die if I did nothing.

It was now or never.

The priests stared at me with evident aversion for having to confer with a traitor. I didn't want them to take me for a common cut-throat, some sort of immoral creature simply out for money. I wanted them to understand and agree with the necessity my actions. I wanted to know that God would forgive me.

"Now if I help you, you need to see that these sordid matters are coming hard to me. This wasn't an easy decision; I weighed both sides out before I came to you. I have no thought at all about my own reward; I didn't come here of my own accord. Just don't say I'm damned for betraying my friend."

They ignored my pleas. I felt ridiculous, but I couldn't stop my frantic entreaties.

"I came because I had to! I'm the one who saw! Jesus can't control it like he did before. Furthermore I know that Jesus thinks so, too; he wouldn't mind that I was here with you. I have no thought at all about my own reward; I truly didn't come here of my own accord. Just don't say I'm damned forever for this."

The ominous and claustrophobic atmosphere of the place was getting to me. What was I doing here? My heart started to race as panic settled into my system. I had to get out of there.

I sprinted for the exit and was almost there when I remembered the consequences of my inaction. I just wanted to leave, but I couldn't do that to Jesus. I started to run back to the priests only to find myself heading for the back entrance. I felt like I was being chased, but when I looked back, only emptiness was following me. I veered away from the exit and grabbed onto a nearby column to stop running. I must've looked crazed, though the priests acted disinterested. I was getting desperate for some sign of approval.

"Annas, you're a friend, a worldly man and wise. Caiaphas, my friend, I know you sympathize. Why are we the prophets? Why am I the one? Who see the sad solution and know what must be done? I have no thought at all about my own reward! I really didn't come here of my own accord!"

I clutched onto Caiaphas' robes and let myself sink to the floor. "Please! Just don't say I'm damned for all time!"

Tired of my antics, Annas grabbed my hair and wrenched my head back. The unexpected pain jolted me back to my senses and I began to calm down slightly.

"Cut the protesting, forget the excuses. We want information. Get up of the floor." Annas viciously shoved me to the ground. I understood his abuse; in fact, I deserved it.

Caiaphas joined in. "We need to arrest him. We have the evidence; you know his movements. Together we'll bring him to court."

"But don't worry. Your help in this matter will be rewarded," Annas added.

"We'll pay you thirty pieces of silver," continued Caiaphas as Annas dangled a bag of coins over my head, "We just need to know where the soldiers can find him."

"With no crowd around him," Annas added.

"Then we can't fail," concluded Caiaphas.

What was I, a whore? A bounty hunter who traded coins for human blood? They really expected to buy me? I would have told them everything without a single coin. I suddenly felt exhausted. I just wanted to raise myself up and spit in their insolent and self-righteous faces, but I could barely move. I tried to crawl away from them, but they easily followed me.

"I don't need your blood money!" I cried.

"Don't worry; we're good for it," Caiaphas replied politely.

"You don't understand. I don't _want_ your bloody money!"

"You might as well take it. What harm will it do? We want you to have it," soothed Annas.

I brought myself into a kneeling position and stared at the bloated pouch suspended obscenely over my head.

Caiaphas continued. "Just think of what you can do with this money. You could even give it to a charity or to the poor. We've noted and understand your motives and feelings—"

They understood my reasons, then. Without conscious effort, I began to reach for the bag.

"—This isn't 'blood money,' it's a small token of our appreciation for your help."

He had a good point. The money was but a fraction of what Jesus had wasted on that ointment, but it could help a lot of the wretched poor in this city and in others. I wanted to take it, but I was frightened. It was as if touching the leather pouch would scald me, would mark me for life.

I tentatively cupped my hand around it, barely daring to touch it. When I felt no pain, I grabbed it more firmly. Annas released his grip. I was amazed by the lightness of the bag, by the feel of its smooth leather against my skin. I automatically began to speak, as if the money had loosened my tongue. I was actually going to go through with this. I concentrated on holding back my tears.

"On Thursday night, you'll find him where you want him."

I choked back a sob.

"Far from the crowds, in the garden of—"

My eyes began to sting. I could just stop; I could just throw the money back at the priests and return to the camp...But I knew there was no alternative. This was the only way.

I forced the terrible word from my lips. "—Gethsemane."

The last syllable felt like a stab to my stomach. I waited until the priests withdrew before I let my feelings overwhelm me. I sat on the ground for a few minutes, trying in vain to control the sobs that wracked my body. Without thinking, I looked up to the heavens and asked God for guidance. For a moment I actually expected an answer. I shook my head at my own stupidity. I knew that it had been the right thing to do. I knew it all too well.

Feeling like I had aged twenty years and trying not to vomit from the churning dread in my stomach, I sluggishly started to walk back to the camp.

I tried not to let myself feel or think about anything, but my mind soon began to race with paranoia and anxiety. Every person I came across seemed to know what I had done. I felt their eyes following me, accusing me. Not paying attention, I kept bumping into individuals…Or did they bump into me? Did they know what I was? Did they see the mark of betrayal I carried?

I had thought the pain of uncertainty would disappear once I'd betrayed him, but it had just gotten worse.

I needed some kind of relief.


	6. Chapter 6 Revised 050507

_After doing some research on self-injury, I realized that this chapter especially could act as a trigger for this behavior. So if you hurt yourself, you may want to skip the first section of this. I apologize if this warning comes too late. _

The alcohol barely dulled the ache in my heart. My thoughts were a whirlwind of self-disgust and bitterness. I had betrayed him. He was my friend, my love, my inspiration, and I had broken his trust. I would have called it an absurd nightmare if it weren't for the terrible weight of the money in my pocket. I was a coward, a backstabber, an idiot. I hated myself completely.

And yet, an odd pride filled me as well. I had proven that he no longer held in power over me. I was free of the heavy bond people foolishly call love. The thrill of power occasionally warmed my sickly veins, strengthening me with resolve even as it nauseated me with guilt.

My head was pounding as if my brain was trying to burst out of my skull. I felt the evil surging, burning, itching beneath my skin.

I wanted to die.

I gulped down the rest of wine and shattered the empty bottle on the ground. I picked up a large piece of jagged glass and appraised the earnest play of light on its brown, foggy surface.

I placed the glass against my wrist, but I couldn't do it. I was too afraid. The demon that would have given me the strength had abandoned me when I needed it most.

Yet all was not lost. I could make my body reflect my spirit. I could replace my mental anguish with physical suffering. I could atone for my actions and feelings. Perhaps God would accept my paltry offering for forgiveness.

Quivering with anticipation, I pulled off my shirt and placed the glass against my stomach, shadowing one of the paling scars I still had from so many years before. I slowly drew the shard across, gasping and flinching from the pain I hadn't experienced in over half a decade. With a strange thrill I watched as the iridescent crimson crept slowly from the shallow slash.

The occasional passersby barely glanced at me; I was just another madman in the streets. I enjoyed the freedom of anonymity.

As the glass again tore my flesh, I remembered the first time Jesus had seen my scars.

* * *

It was a few days after we'd first made love. 

The day was strangely hot and humid; we decided to go swimming in the river to cool off. I was so comfortable being around him that I forgot about my disfigured flesh. I took off my clothes without thinking twice about it. I had been completely naked with him before, of course, but it was the first time we'd seen each other in the unforgiving light of day.

He suddenly stopped talking when I finished undressing and stared at me in shocked wonder. When I figured out what he was looking at so intensely, I turned away in humiliation, certain I had disgusted him. How could I have been so careless?

He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me, quieting my mounting apprehension. He gently rubbed the raised scars on my abdomen. Despite the heat, I shivered at his touch.

"What happened?" he asked softly in my ear as he massaged my chest.

I couldn't lie to him, although all I wanted was to keep the darkness of the world from his radiant eyes.

"I used to cut myself," I answered simply. I expected him to be appalled, but he only squeezed me consolingly and asked me why.

"To punish myself," I said, chuckling inappropriately, "I did some very bad things." I paused uncomfortably.

After a couple moments of silence, I thoughtlessly added, "I'm a bad person." I had meant it as a joke. It wasn't until after I'd said it that I realized I believed it.

I must have shocked him with that disclosure. He promptly faced me, held my shoulders at arm's length, and looked me sternly in the eye.

"What are you talking about? You're the most caring and good-hearted person I know," he said firmly, "Everyone has moments of weakness. It's part of being human."

He hugged me warmly. I let myself relax in his embrace.

"You don't need to punish yourself for them."

* * *

I wondered if he'd say the same now. 

I didn't stop cutting myself until I became lightheaded. Once the wounds had congealed a little, I washed myself in the river, watching the diluted gore disappear in the tumbling current.

I felt calm and satisfied. I could think clearly again.

And I felt utterly empty.

* * *

Somehow I made it to the gardens of Gethsemane in time for the Passover meal. I collapsed outside the gates and guzzled some more cheap wine to bolster my courage before I went in. No matter how much I drank, I couldn't seem to get drunk. The taste of bitter alcohol began to sicken me. 

I heard the others cheerfully preparing for the holiday. I wondered if they would see the guilt on my face, the shame in my gait and gestures. I dragged myself into their company. No one even noticed my presence. They were too caught up in their drunken, idiotic joy to notice real evil in their mists.

I slumped down in the shadows with my dark thoughts. I had already made my decision. Now I only needed to resist the compulsion to reveal my crime to the person I'd betrayed, to deny the incessant urge to save Jesus from my treachery.

Eventually he appeared; it was time for the meal. I was shocked by his appearance. He was a mere shell of his former self. He looked so tired, so…sad. I suddenly yearned for the man I'd met in Nazareth all those years ago, the man full of optimism and purpose, the man who had pulled me from the abyss and showed me a better way of life. Where had he gone? Had he ever really existed? I could barely stand to look at him now.

Jesus began to bless the food in a strange, faraway voice.

"The end...is just a little harder, when brought about by friends."

Alarm quickened my heart. What did he mean? Did he know? I told myself I was just being paranoid, that I was reading suspicion in everyday, albeit odd, words. I drank some more wine.

"For all you care, this wine could be my blood; for all you care, this bread could be my body."

What was he trying to say? He wasn't making any sense; he almost sounded demented. I could barely look at him.

"This is my blood you drink; this is my body you eat."

This was Passover! Was he comparing himself to Moses now as well? And when had matzo become flesh, when had wine become blood? What were we, cannibals?

The others didn't comprehend either. They stared up at him, afraid. He got a desperate glint in his eye.

"If you would, remember me when you eat and drink!...I must be mad thinking I'll be remembered, yes!"

He slammed his fist on the table. I'd never seen him so abruptly turbulent.

"I must be out of my head! Look at your blank faces! My name will mean _nothing_, ten minutes after I'm dead!"

I wished he would stop talking about his death.

"One of you denies me; one of you betrays me!"

He knew. I couldn't move; the dreadful pounding of my heart battered my ears.

He began to move around the table like a caged animal as the others crowded around him, worried that they were the culprits somehow. I prepared myself to be identified as the betrayer. He got closer to me, and closer, and even closer. Time was running out for me; I felt its tiny grains gushing through my hands.

But Jesus simply passed by as if he hadn't seen me. Why was he torturing me like this? Why didn't he just punch me in the face or kick me in the crotch? That would have been less painful than this terrifying anticipation.

He eventually revealed that Peter was going to deny him three times. Peter, always the proud and paternal devotee, looked like he was about to have a heart attack.

Jesus began to say who had betrayed him, but he kept delaying it, drawing it out for effect. Why didn't he just say it already?! Anger seized my heart; I hated his absurd melodramas. He'd spent too much time playing the crowd; he couldn't even come out straight with something as significant as this. I hated him; I wanted him to hate me back.

"Crap out the dramatics! You know very well who it is!" I shouted.

"Why don't you go do it?" he replied bitterly.

"What?! You want me to do it?!"

"Hurry, they're waiting!" he taunted.

"But if you only knew why I do it…" I reasoned, trying to control my emotions.

"I don't care why you do it!"

He obviously didn't trouble himself about me at all anymore. He slapped his hands on the table to support himself.

"To think I admired you!" I pulled the tablecloth away so that his face would slam into the hard wood. "For now I only despise you!" He regained his balance before he got hurt.

"You liar! You Judas!"

I hated that he could see through me when I could no longer see through him.

"So you want me to do it!" He nodded his head with pungent eagerness. "What if I just stayed here and ruined your sick _ambition_! You'd deserve that more!"

"Hurry, you fool! Save me your speeches! I don't want to know! Go!"

I didn't leave. I wanted to punch him, to hurt him, to feel his blood on my fist and prove that he wasn't immortal, wasn't invulnerable, wasn't above the common man.

As I glared across the table, I saw the anger and humiliation in his face, and I relished in it. "You thought you had me whipped, didn't you?" I thought as I stared into his raging eyes, "You thought Judas would be the last person to turn you in. You thought you were stronger than me, but you were wrong."

Then I saw his eyes become saddened and disappointed, and my temper flared. How dare he! He had betrayed me first! He was the one who had ignored me and pushed me away, and now he acted like this was all my fault! I had given him my wounded heart and he had stomped on it, wiping the pus and blood from his holier-than-thou shoes. I couldn't stand his hypocrisy anymore. I jumped up on the table so he couldn't run around it anymore.

"You sad, pathetic man! See what you've brought us to?! All of our ideals lay massacred around us, and it's all because of _you_! You wouldn't stop at that though, would you?! You kept going, even after a multitude of warnings and signs, you kept on going like an idiot! And now, the most pathetic part is that someone has to turn you in like some kind of common criminal! And that's all you are now, a vile, animalistic criminal!"

Rage blazed in my stomach. I shoved him to the ground, where he belonged. I felt the others trying to pull me from the table, but they were too scared to do anything other than grab my jacket. I stared at the man lying on the floor and wondered how I could have ever loved that blob of lies. As he got up I shouted at him, taunted him.

"You're nothing but a corrupt dictator! _Nothing_ but another corrupt, _disgusting_ dictator!"

I was consumed by wrath and despair. Everything was dark and blurry. Blood muffled my ears. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. I gasped desperately for air. I felt like I was about to collapse.

Jesus jumped up on the table with me and shouted at me to go away, to betray him. Why was he doing this?! Why did it have to be this way?! Why had he put me in this impossible situation?! I motioned for him to stop goading me; I felt like I would cry and show my weakness if he uttered one more word. I gathered all the rage and energy I had left and tried to spit out a parting blow that would make him regret what he'd done.

"Every time I look at you I don't understand—!" I began furiously.

"What?" he asked. His gentle, imploring tone took me by surprise. He had sounded like he did the day we met: loving and kind. Did he still care for me? My righteous anger was finally completely replaced by utter despair. I broke down; my face contorting wildly in agony.

"—Why you let the things you did get so out of hand!" I found myself sinking to my knees, clutching desperately to his leg.

"Why didn't you realize this would happen?! Why didn't you have things planned from the start?!"

I could no longer speak. The only further sound I made was a groan that spewed from the bottom of my soul. For a few moments, I was completely lost in my regret, swimming helplessly in sorrow and frustration. His leg was my only connection to reality. I clung to it and sobbed convulsively.

Eventually, I began to regain my senses. I heard the others stirring from their fearful states, in shock over the spectacle they had just witnessed. What was I doing? I was overcome with shame for losing control of myself again. I had always been the strong one, the one who could always hide the extent of his emotions when necessary. Now I didn't know who or what I was anymore.

I sensed Jesus moving, bending down to comfort me, to welcome me back into the fold. I pulled away before he touched me. We both knew it was too late for that. At best, it would delay this for a few months. I had utterly humiliated myself in front of everyone, and all for him. I hated him for thinking everything could go back to normal. It was time to do what I had planned and what he evidently wanted and needed me to do.

My head throbbed as I staggered away.

* * *

I didn't remember going to the priests. I didn't remember joining the Roman centurions. I vaguely recalled asking Annas for a moment to say good-bye to Jesus after I'd revealed him, but I wasn't a hundred percent sure about that. I wasn't sure of anything anymore. Everything was clouded over in a miasma of surreality. 

I was dead inside.

* * *

Next thing I knew, I was back at the atrociously beautiful gardens of Gethsemane. 

I saw the disciples littering the ground, passed out from too much wine, too much "blood." The brainless fools. Jesus had told them what would happen, what they had so wanted to know just a few days before, and now they did nothing but sleep in drunken stupors.

Jesus stood in the middle of it all. I remembered my anger and eyed him like a hawk eyes a mouse. He deserved this. But as I started towards him I became confused. Why wasn't he trying to escape? Why was he just standing there?

His complicity frightened me.

Then it dawned on me. On some level, he knew that this was the only way to stop the madness. Subconsciously, he wanted to be arrested, to be freed of this fervor that surrounded his name. I pitied him then. He looked so scared and helpless. It took everything I had not to weep for him, for us.

I was finally standing before him, barely able to look him in the eye. For a moment I studied the face I had loved so absolutely. Where should I kiss him? I let myself be absorbed in petty details as I debated among his mouth, his forehead, and his cheek. I wanted to kiss him on the mouth, of course, but Annas and the guards were watching. I kissed him on the cheek.

Feeling his skin against mine pushed my mind back to the first time I had stolen such a kiss from him, right after he'd cured me all those many years ago. Back then, the kiss had been an expression of thanks that was impulsive and pure, an illustration of friendship that yearned to be transformed into an irrevocable passion. Now it was a premeditated gesture of distrust, a sharply sarcastic symbol of perfidy.

I kissed him too long again, just like the first time. I quickly pulled away and looked down, trying desperately not to cry, not to feel his disappointment and indignation. Tears fell without my permission.

"Judas, must you betray me with a kiss?" he asked softly.

I looked into his eyes involuntarily. His gentle orbs were full pity, sadness, and regret, much different from the resentment I had expected.

I wanted to explain myself, to tell him all the silly reasons I had decided to do this, but all I could do was gesticulate meaninglessly.

Time was running out. I could hear the disciples slowly awakening, the soldiers tentatively making their advance. Words didn't matter anymore. I just wanted Jesus to know that I still cared about him, that I had really done this out of love, not hatred. I timidly attempted to embrace him, but I didn't have the courage. No one could forgive a crime like mine.

Then he reached up and touched my temples as if to calm me. That was all the encouragement I required. I collapsed into his arms, sadly enjoying the familiar scent of his clothes until I fully realized that this would be the last time I ever held him. I frantically pulled him to me. He patted my back and head reassuringly. Why in God's name had I betrayed him? Why did it have to be this way?

I wanted to hold him to me forever and forget about the rest of existence. When I heard his heart beating, it seemed like everything would work out, would end up better than before. We were both safe as long as we were together.

This simple truth was soon obliterated forever. The soldiers callously ripped us apart; I was tossed against a nearby pillar like a leaf. The collision left me partially senseless for a moment. With dreamlike awareness I watched as the finally conscious disciples tried to rescue Jesus. I watched as he stopped them. I hated him for stopping them, for not even attempting to rescue himself.

I gradually regained my equilibrium and followed Jesus and the soldiers. I was going to see this through to the bitter end.

The other disciples fled in fear.


	7. Chapter 7

Reporters and gawkers pounced on us as we marched out of the gardens. They ruthlessly taunted and interrogated Jesus. I had thought that his arrest was going to be quiet and discrete. I'd never meant for a crowd to be privy to his degradation. How had these vultures found out, anyway?

I found my answer when I looked into the sneering eyes of Annas. I immediately wanted to smash his self-assured mouth into his skull. How could I have been so naïve? Annas didn't care about the state of Jesus' soul or even the welfare of the people. He wanted to utterly humiliate him, to make him pay for his sins. I repressed my urge to hit the priest. I should have known better.

The party finally arrived at the high priest's house. The priests were letting them watch the interrogation. I felt more pangs of guilt. I'd assumed Jesus' confession would become known by word of mouth, not by direct witnesses. He was so vulnerable under the scrutiny of the throng. I wanted to protect him from their condemning gaze. I tried to get closer, but people pushed in on me from all sides, making it almost impossible to even move.

I berated myself for trying to protect him. I was the one who had caused this in the first place, after all. I had to remember that it was all for the best.

"Just calm down," I told myself, "It's better that he be judged by his own people than by Rome. He'll see this and confess. All will be forgiven. A ready confession from him and God will be satisfied with a sacrifice."

I felt the now-familiar weight of the money in my pocket. Thirty pieces could buy a suitable sheep for the occasion, and the rest could be used to buy food for the starving

"…If only my gut would listen to the soothing reason of my brain," I thought as I tried not to bend over from the pain.

The crowd suddenly quieted: the interrogation was officially beginning. Caiaphas spoke first.

"Jesus, as you must realize, you've been brought before us to answer for the multiple accusations of blasphemy. We have witnesses reporting that you claim to be the actual son of Hashem. Is this true?"

Jesus looked the Kohen Gadol in the eye and retorted, "That's what you say; you say that I am."

My mind yelled "What the hell are you doing?!"; my mouth was too parched to make a sound. I had to get to him and _force_ him to confess, if not with my words, then with my fist. I desperately pushed through the mass of bodies, but was pulled back to the door by the guards. I tried to speak, to say something, anything that might change his mind, but my tongue felt cemented in place. I could only watch on helplessly as Annas passed out the judgment.

"There you have it. What more evidence do we need? He won't even acknowledge his crime." Annas turned his steely gaze on me. "Judas, thank you for the victim. Stay a while and you'll see him suffer for his arrogance!"

Everything had gone horribly, unbelievably wrong. Why hadn't he confessed?

Jesus was being led from the room. I was too dismayed to even hide myself. I crushed myself against the door jamb, longing to disappear into the cold wood, to discover that this was all some bizarre nightmare.

I tried to look away as he walked past me, but when he came closer I automatically turned to meet his angry gaze. Was he going to chastise me? Hit me? Spit in my face? I deserved far worse.

Suddenly I saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"Help me," he mouthed as he laid a hand on my chest.

He was so helpless, so pathetic…I had to turn away to keep myself from breaking down completely. Why was he asking for help from his betrayer? Didn't he see that now I was as helpless as he was? I felt his disappointment and sadness softly assail my face as he patted my chest, a somber gesture meant as sincere comfort. He let his hand slide across as he was taken away. I tried to block out the sensation of his touch, to forget about the many times he'd laid his head over my heart and fallen asleep to its rhythmic beating. Why did it have to be this way? Why did he have to be such a stubborn fool?

"Take him to Pilate! Take him to Pilate!"

The crowd's mantra woke me from my despondent reveries. I had somehow ignored their cries before, but now the truth came crashing through the protective glass of ignorance. The screaming shards rained down on my exposed flesh. The weight began to slowly crush my heart, making it difficult to breathe.

Pilate. They were taking Jesus to that butcher of hundreds. They wanted harsher punishment than excommunication and banishment. They wanted blood, to see his body writhe beneath the lash.

Annas' voice cut through my thoughts. "Aren't you going to see the completion of your handiwork?" He said it as if I should be proud.

I didn't reply. In a daze I followed the crowd to the Roman court.

* * *

I saw Peter, Mary, and few other disciples enter the decaying building ahead of me. I kept to the shadows, hiding behind columns and doors to make certain they wouldn't see me.

I found a place opposite from them and hid behind a wall. I could see Jesus through the bars. He looked exhausted. They obviously hadn't let him rest at all.

The mob jeered and mocked him without pity. He kept his eyes straight ahead as if deep in thought. I swallowed with difficulty. The faint taste of blood tickled my tongue.

"Just tell them the truth," I told him in my mind, "Tell them the truth, and everything will be fine. Everything will be fine."

More people pressed into the tiny space to watch, pushing against me like hungry rats. Each person's foul breath and viscid sweat absorbed into my skin and clothes, rendering me nauseous. The heat generated by so many writhing bodies suffocated me. I concentrated on remembering to breathe and on my silent pleadings of "Tell the truth."

I barely noticed Pilate's entrance, only his booming voice grabbed my attention, but I blocked out his words for the most part, waiting for Jesus' mouth to move. Finally, he had the opportunity to defend himself.

"That's what you say," he said calmly, his tone barely scraping above all-out irony.

"Damn him!" I thought savagely as I felt my stomach pitch and churn.

I didn't hear Pilate's reply to Jesus' remark, but I had no need to. How does a weak governor always respond to insubordination? With an iron fist and a hot head.

Besides, I was concentrating on other things now. The air seemed to be congealing and coagulating, pressing in on me and demanding the space I was wasting with my body. I was covered in a cold sweat and my breathing became laborious. My stomach pain was quickly spreading upward into my chest.

"He's doing this to punish me!" I thought blearily as I gasped audibly in pain. I vaguely understood that this wasn't very logical. Why would Jesus put himself in danger just to teach me some silly lesson? But I was preoccupied at the time with not breathing and I forgot about reason and logic. I felt that something horrible was about to happen, that Jesus and I were about to suffer some terrible affliction. It was as if I could feel the future's ominous, wolf-like breathing in my ear—and laughing.

Fat black flies and gnats began to fly into my eyes, filling my ears with their buzzing. I couldn't seem to get rid of them. Panicked and afraid that I was going insane, I forced my way through the throng until I made it to the outside of the building. Yet I still couldn't breath, and the flies were becoming ever more numerous. I was exhausted, and I wanted to collapse right there, but I also knew I had to get out of sight. I didn't want anyone's help, and I definitely didn't want anyone to see me in this state. There were about a dozen steps to get down first, though. I careened and staggered down them, amazed from one moment to the next that I hadn't fallen on my face. I was thinking I would make it when the flies finally swarmed completely over my eyes. Unable to see, I lost my balance on the last step. I didn't even feel myself hit the ground.

* * *

I must have regained consciousness after only a few moments, for I heard the opening of the doors behind me and a mass exodus of the barely-sated observers. I still felt faint, but I willed myself to open my eyes and sit up. The flies and gnats were still racing haphazardly before my eyes; their buzzing had turned into a distinct ringing. I dragged myself to the side of the stairs and prayed I was out of sight. I wanted to vomit, but there was little in my stomach for that purpose: I hadn't eaten in a couple of days. In any case, the necessary heaving and gagging would reveal my location. I wrapped my arms around my knees and lowered my head. I didn't want to pass out again, but I knew I'd fall asleep if I lied down.

"What have we here?"

I jerked my head up so fast the buzzing black spots overwhelmed my vision. It didn't matter. I recognized the voice.

"Go away, Simon," I said as threateningly as I was able, and succeeded in sounding gruffly annoyed.

A couple of other voices joined Simon's in vicious sniggers. I conjectured they belonged to his typical consorts, Thaddeus and Bartholomew

"I can't believe _you_ are telling _me_ what to do," said Simon with his usual artful sarcasm, "When did cock-sucking traitors get all the authority? Oh, wait, I forgot…I suppose you've just turned Roman on us, then, is that it, Judy?"

Surprising even myself with a sudden burst of energy, I leapt up and grabbed Simon by the shirt.

"You call me a traitor," I whispered vehemently to Simon's shocked face, "When you've told everyone about Jesus and—"

I was interrupted when Thaddeus wrenched me away and threw me back to the ground. I heard the unsheathing of a knife. Before I could react, Simon was back in my face, his hand at my throat, the tip of his knife blade pricking my side. I didn't resist.

"I only told them what you are, not what you tricked him into doing. Don't go around accusing me of your crime."

"Good to know," I rasped in relief, his grip making it difficult to speak, "What are you and your friends going to do now?"

"Punish a back-stabber," he spat. But he didn't push the blade in.

"I don't think you have the guts," I goaded impulsively.

He gave me a strange look and loosened his hold. I frowned.

"Come on, boy," I whispered, "Don't disappoint your friends. Just push it in. Or do you not know how to do that yet?"

I saw a flame leap in his eyes as his hand tightened its grasp again. Before he could act on his rage, a female voice cut shrilly through the air.

"Simon, what are you doing?! Let him go!"

Mary always knew how to end the fun. Simon sheathed his knife, spat in my face, and shoved me back to the earth.

I pulled myself into a sitting position, trying to appear as normal as possible. "It's been fun! Do come again sometime!" I called out as Simon sulked back to Peter and Mary.

Thinking that I'd finally be left alone, I dragged myself into a dark corner to wait out the dizzy spells and to avoid overhearing the domestic conversation the others were partaking in. The effort of the fight and conversation had drained me of energy. The black insects began swirl around me once again. My skin was chilled and rubbery, though I felt overheated. Everything was getting dimmer and dimmer.

I fell forward and passed out again, only to awake a few seconds later with the stench of soil in my nostrils. For a moment I became preoccupied with its strange muskiness of decayed life and crumbled stone. I wanted to taste it, to feel its grittiness against my tongue, but I was so tired.

I couldn't stay awake any longer.

As I let myself slip into sleep, I realized someone was gently caressing my face and hair.

"Thanks, Jesus," I mumbled drowsily, forgetting--or letting myself forget--that Jesus was gone.

I fell asleep.

* * *

It was night. I was supine on the ground, covered in a raggedy woolen blanket. I turned over and saw a small fire burning a few feet away.

"What the…?" I said as I rose up on one elbow.

"Oh, good. You're finally up," a familiar voice said. A shadow rose from the side of the fire and grabbed something from a bag before walking over to me.

"Mary?"

"Who else? Here."

She dropped a napkin in front of my face. It contained some matzo. I felt nauseous.

"I don't want any…Thanks," I said, covering the food with excess napkin. My head was throbbing.

"You have to eat," she explained in an annoyed but motherly tone.I didn't move. "Fine. I'll get you some water. See if that makes you feel better."

"I'd prefer wine," I muttered, but in all honesty, I didn't care what it was as long as it was a drink.

"Here."

I sipped slowly from the canteen. Mary promptly returned to her original location in the shadows, but I could make out her eyes watching the fire.

The water sharpened my thoughts a little. I finally sat up all the way and picked a little at the food. The only sounds were the crackling of the flames and the cracking of the matzo.

"Where are the others?" I asked, unnerved by the quiet.

"They're scattered around; wherever they could find a hiding place, I suppose."

"Ah."

Another awkward silence.

"Where is he?"

Mary looked at me in surprise. "You didn't hear Pilate?"

"I was a bit preoccupied."

"He's been sent to Herod."

"What? Why?"

"Pilate said he should be judged by his own people."

I snorted. "Pilate was passing the buck like he always does."

Mary suddenly started digging through her giant handbag.

"What are you looking for?" I asked out of curiosity.

"This," she said as she pulled out a large knife. I instinctively recoiled a bit.

"I promised the guys I would keep it handy," she continued, laying the knife to the side within effortless reach.

"Aw, you don't trust me?" I sneered.

"Cut the crap, Judas," Mary snapped vehemently, "You don't expect us to trust you after what you did?"

"Why'd you help me, then?" I spat back, trying to hide my surprise. She always seemed so damn _nice_ before—on second thought, too nice.

"When I see a starving mutt in the street, I try to help it. That's all," she answered, the venom replaced with indifference.

"Fine. Thanks for the help…But… Why did you wait for me to wake up? Why didn't you just leave some provisions and go away?"

It was hard to tell from the firelight, but she seemed a little taken aback. I continued, feeling slightly glad I had finally disquieted her.

"So, you stayed here all this time just to find out why I did it? Why I betrayed your precious Jesus?" I taunted, "You women are amazingly predictable, you—"

"That wasn't it at all," she interrupted, a shimmering of outrage in her eyes, "It figures that you think this is all about you. I don't give a damn why you did it. Jesus is in jail; that's what matters…And don't pretend you know me. You only see what you want to see, nothing more."

"Then tell me why you play the caretaker when you're obviously anything but," I demanded, glaring at her.

She paused and studied me a moment, her face lit with curiosity and uncertainty. "Did you love Jesus?" Her voice was strained and slightly hoarse.

My face slackened with alarm and my thoughts began to race. How had she figured it out? We'd always been so careful, so discrete. No one else had even suspected, and Simon wouldn't have told her…Relax. It must have been a good guess, that's all. I smiled at her as if amused.

"How is that any different from what I said before? Why is it 'important'?"

"Just give me a straight answer for once."

"I used to respect him. I'd even go so far as to say I admired him, but love? No. Not at all."

She squinted her eyes at me in disbelief, but said nothing. I hoped she couldn't see my uneasiness.

"What?" I asked in exasperation. "Is there anything else? I'm leaving at dawn," I added, gesturing to the steadily paling sky, "You're running out of time."

"Fine," she said at last, "One final question, then: why did you say his name before you passed out in my lap?"

"That was you?" I asked incredulously before I could stop myself.

"Who else?" she echoed from before, this time with a smirk.

I remembered thinking I was with Jesus before I fell asleep, but I didn't realize I'd said anything out loud. I quickly tried to come up with something convincing, but I was overwhelmed and panicked, unable to think clearly or rapidly enough.

"I was half-delirious. If I even said anything, it was babble. You're obviously mistaken," I stated as calmly as I could. Was my voice shaking? I couldn't tell.

"No, I'm not," she rejoined decidedly.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are, and that's the truth whether you accept it or not…Look," I continued hastily, standing up and wiping the dirt from my clothes, "Thanks for the help. You really shouldn't have troubled yourself."

Though I wanted to break into a run, I forced myself to saunter instead; I didn't want to appear to be in a hurry to get away from her. Then I heard her ever-increasingly irritating voice call out, "He often talked about you, you know."

I stopped dead in my tracts, exactly as she planned. I camouflaged my obvious interest with a laugh and replied, "He had only good things to say, I'm sure."

"At first? Yes, only good things."

I turned around.

"I see I've got your attention, now."

"For now. Are you going to continue?"

I inched my way back towards the fire's dying embers.

"I decided to join him the day I first heard him preach there in Hebron. I wasn't sure he'd even let me join. It took me forever to gather the courage to ask him. We hit it off, I guess, and ended up talking for hours that night. When I asked about the others in the group, the first one he mentioned was you. He said that any questions I had could be answered by you if he was busy, that you were unofficially his right-hand man. He said you had a good heart, but that you hid it well sometimes. He actually thought we'd become good friends."

We both burst out laughing.

"Well, you can't get them all right," I jested as I sat down again a few feet to her side.

"You'd sit beside a woman like me? I'm touched." she said in mock astonishment.

"I got cold," I responded reasonably, "Besides, there's still a while before the sun rises." She smirked knowingly. I ignored it. "Is that all he ever said about me?" I asked impatiently.

"When you started being so critical, he vented how stubborn and negative you were being."

"He's such an understanding soul," I grumbled.

"He also said you were just doing it for spite."

"What?! He thought _I_ was spiteful?! That hypocritical son of a—!"

I immediately stopped when I saw Mary's eyes flash with comprehension.

"What?" I said defensively, afraid I had revealed something without knowing.

"Nothing, just…amazed how quickly you two can rile each other. A few words from one can push the other to the edge in a second…In fact, at times I thought you two had a secret language no one else could ever understand."

"Were you jealous?"

"Of course. Not to your extreme, but—"

"I wasn't—!" I interrupted hotly before I realized I was whining.

Mary rubbed her eyes in fatigue. "I've been up all night, Judas. I'm too tired to deal with egos." She sighed at looked at me piercingly. "We both know the truth."

"And just what is the truth?"

"You tell me."

I glowered at her as an impulse to do just that rose up in my throat. I opened and closed my mouth a few times like a dying fish, unsure of what to do. Did she really know about it, or was she simply bluffing?

"Mary—" I began flatly. At that moment, a door slammed somewhere on the next street. I looked around in alarm and realized it was finally daylight. With horror I thought about what I had just been about to say. I had almost made another huge mistake.

"Mary," I repeated as I dropped my eyes and stood up, "I—I have to go."

"But—"

"Sorry." I ignored her protests and started running. I heard her chasing after me, but I was faster.

I soon disappeared into the labyrinths of the slums.


End file.
